


Reign Down

by drD



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Dark Hermione Granger, Death Eaters, Dubious Consent, F/F, Multi, Post-War, Pureblood Culture, Pureblood Politics, Pureblood Society, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-11 17:45:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 118,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7901920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drD/pseuds/drD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Occasionally, things do not always go as planned. After the war, the wizarding world is not run by the Light. It's run by power and blood. Hermione's concept of peace and equality has always been relative, even if it's granted under Voldemort's executed strategy. Yet, his carefully crafted utopia cannot be held without sacrifice. It's time for Hermione to prove her worth in a new era of control masked as peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ready

Time was an aspect of waking reality that would halt for no being; beast, muggle, or wizard. It could be manipulated certainly and abused but it could not be conquered. Time, it’s temporary control or otherwise, marched onward with little interruption nor care for those that ceased to exist within its line. It held no emotional attachment to life lost as it slugged forward and it didn’t pause to reset if grave mistakes were made. One could still claim mastery and design some barely perfected theory to disrupt its continuous flow, but the dangerous risk involved in the venture was insurmountable. Time-turning was a fickle magic, as wild and unpredictable as a potion-induced storm--should one choose to travel back without being aware of the hard rules that governed its hardly absolute control--and supposedly impossible to achieve since the _incident_ that took place at the Department of Mysteries. So there was no true way to return to a more innocent benign time nor correct the irreversible choices made so many years ago on a fateful evening at the crumbling rubble of the former Hogwart’s School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Instead, she had to move forward, shoved along by time and a fate she had--originally--misunderstood. She’d always known that prophecies were fallacies, just simple guidance too cryptic to understand until the very last minute when everything was already falling apart and shifting through desperately grasping fingertips like so many grains of sand. She had firmly, indisputably, believed in a well-earned and proper ending to the Second Wizarding War in her youth, one that would have assuredly ended with The-Boy-Who-Lived blanketed by the roar of victory and the hope of a people who’d refused to be oppressed. Perhaps, she’d been blinded by a sense of naivety. In the Muggle stories she’d read as a child the ‘bad guys’ always fell to the manifested power of love and determination. _Good_ people won because they were _good._ Bad people lost because they were _bad._ In reality, there hadn’t been enough clarification to blindly access that they were _good_ enough to be assured their victory and that _they_ had been bad enough to fail without contest.

It had all been rather anti-climatic actually, their loss at the hands of His army. His numbers had been nearly insurmountable after all, but they had been filled with hope and drunk off the determination that he--who she tried not to think about, not now when paranoia clung to her flesh and her waking reality seemed too surreal to be real--had been the Chosen One. It seemed incredibly unlikely, despite the obvious lack in their original numbers, that they could falter here. Yet, they had been children, children forced to battle against some of the most esteemed of His Inner Circle, some of the most experienced, ruthless, and madness-stricken. When she thought about it, her youth, her admiration, her blind faith, and unwavering loyalty seemed ludicrous in the face of highly predictable odds.

She considered herself a rather bright witch, supposedly the brightest of her age, but the fact that she had been unable to see such an outcome was a contradiction to that admission.

“Hermione.”

The voice that echoed from her front was enough to disturb her thoughts, it’s gravelly tone--tired yet firm--was an instant pull to her consciousness. It had her undivided attention, despite the slight press of her lips into a hard  thin line and the repressed grimace she refused to express in the face of this haggard older man.

“What are you still doing here?” The question wasn’t barked, not like it might have been in the past, not since she proved her worth some odd years ago. The hard glare that would have been directed toward her is gone, either destroyed by her obvious display of value over time or wiped away at the idea that he wouldn’t be hunted down and slaughtered from employing her.

It’s been six years since He won, after all, and the first few into His rule a great deal of the wizarding community had been struck with concern over such matters.

“I’m packing up.” She answered, though her words didn’t match up with her intentions. Packing up had been the last thing she’d been doing and it was made rather obvious by the scattered parchment, half-full vials, and other such tools that still surrounded her in a haphazard fashion. “It’s taking some time.”

“Mhm.” Her superior was not amused by her statement, but the slow roll of his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. He’s in no mood to refute her claim, and perhaps doesn’t find the energy worth questioning her statement a good venture of his time. Still, he seemed unwilling to move on and for a time merely stared at her collection of miscellaneous magical doings until the silence around them became too much for Hermione to bare comfortably.

Wordlessly she began to collect her organized mess, only taking a few moments in between softly mumbled cleaning spells upon oddly colored vials to toss her superior, in his stained wrinkled robes, a look of exasperation. She did not need to be babysat, she was no longer an undesirable and despite His reign her life had been somewhat… favorable.

She had not expected to work for St. Mungo’s after all. Not once the pure-bloods had claimed their superiority over everyone and everything. Not after He had risen to the ultimate authority and reconstructed the Ministry and the laws that governed it. Yet, His view had not been the exaggerated evil of cartoon villainy The Order and Dumbledore had claimed it to be. He had not taken to slaughtering Muggles and Muggle-borns out in the streets--though he had placed great restrictions on them, Muggles that is, and their involvement in the wizarding world. Great Britain wasn’t burning and the blood that had washed through the streets in the aftermath had only belonged to those who refused to bow.

At first, she had thought it noble to die. She’d been idealistic, determined, unyielding, and terrified to live in a world of His design but she’d been considered a child swept along by Dumbledore’s paranoid fanaticism to the Light and manipulated beyond belief by prophecies and older wizards into a war that had, ultimately, been beyond them. Still, there was no denying her contribution to the side she’d been involved with. She assumed it had been her intellect that had kept Him from outright destroying her, or maybe her prowess at magical manipulation and studies. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. She hadn’t asked when she’d stood before him, expecting to perish with nothing to show for her efforts other than the always hidden slur carved into her flesh. Yet, he had a plan and she’d had… nothing.

They’d run, the bulk of them, The Order. She hadn’t seen them in the chaos. She hadn’t seen them when she’d been dragged before The Dark Lord for judgement of her crimes and didn’t know what had happened when she’d been tucked away in some dark silent place while the world kept turning and the Ministry politically imploded. Ron was missing, and The-Boy-Who-Lived was… dead, perhaps? She couldn’t be sure, information had been denied her those first few weeks and the only company she’d kept had been the endless fantasies of going to Azkaban or the torture she’d no doubt receive once The Dark Lord celebrated His victory and dangled her before his rabid followers like the slab of meat they’d always viewed her as.

None of that came to pass, of course. She was released, pardoned ironically from her ‘crimes against His Most Magnificent’, and told to prove her value to Him, lest she find herself alongside her less manageable and more dangerous companions that had not been given His mercies.

So she lived, surviving only on pragmatism and a sense of twisted Gryffindor bravery--she wouldn’t let them destroy her, she would not submit to despair--as the survivor's guilt that had once chewed at her faded, and the chaos she’d assumed would consume them failed to come to pass. She waited, of course, hopeful that The Boy was not dead and that Ron would return--certainly, he wasn’t dead, softly spoken rumors seemed to confirm otherwise. She’d heard them whispering once, two of the social elite that had come to inspect her humble home for ‘traitors’ and ‘propaganda against our Lord’. They thought she’d had him, the blood-traitor, but she hadn’t seen him nor heard from any in his family since the war and her immediate capture afterward--but the flame of her hope had dampened, replaced by an unsteady and strange sense of content and surprise at His actions.

Muggles were soon banned from their world but the Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and other magical beings of once questionable status were left to their own devices. There was an odd distinctive lack of outright prejudice against her. No one screamed Mudblood in the halls and more than once the Daily Prophet spoke of Muggle-born achievements. Not her own, of course. Her discoveries and master potion-work was always a missing feature, of which she blamed Rita Skeeter for purposely not including, but others were unnaturally visible among more pure-blood driven news and escapades. Though the news always concluded with a familiar phrasing, that all would prove their worth for The Dark Lord, or forfeit their freedom. Hermione had a feeling that, despite it being left unsaid, blood status wouldn’t matter if He grew weary with any beings performance.

“The longer you take to clean up the longer it takes the next person to set up.” His grumpy voice broke her recollection, but she didn’t fault him for his rush. He wasn’t wrong, her dalliance was a hindrance to the efficiency of the next potioneer based mediwitch and despite her proficiency in the field he had never shown any sort of patience toward her slow crafting.

“I apologize, sir.” She mumbled softly, though knew it meant little to him considering she said it so often.

“Don’t dally next time, Ms. Granger.” He replied, but there was a lack of conviction in his tone. Frustration yes, but no firm warning. This wasn’t the first time he’d said something of this nature and he knew it wouldn’t be the last. It saved him more time to bother her than it did to put effort into making any particular warning of his actually stick. Knowing this he left her to her clean up but not without tossing her another weary glare.

Maybe he really did believe she needed babysitting but any sort of activism she would have engaged in died the moment she’d accepted her place in the new reign. Certainly, once upon a time, she’d allowed thoughts of such a nature to slither in among her more mundane ideals, but she was always watched and without a sure structure of resistance such fantasies seemed…. silly.

She was an adult now, a realist. Survival came before fantastical ideals of heroism in a world that no longer needed them.

With a deep bow she swept the bulk of her tools into a simplistic black satchel enchanted to carry a great deal of items and lighten them so leaving her small lab was not problematic or difficult when she needed to take her work home instead of leaving it to fester. “Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

Then, without waiting for a response--though he never gave one anyway--she left the sterile white environment of St. Mungo’s potions division and swept down the halls with only the click of her boots and the fluttering sound of her green work robes to echo behind her.

Her superior hadn’t been wrong. It was late, much later than usual. With the setting sun as her only immediate acknowledgment of the time she had to admit that she’d lost herself in theories and research for a potion that would cure rather large gaping wounds while effectively replenishing blood. She enjoyed the idea of experimentation and creating hypotheses based on abundant need even if it seemed unrealistic to attempt. That was the meaning of discovery, anyway. To utilize a combination of imagination, information, and skill to create the once impossible but she doubted her superior would have found the beauty in her alchemy. After all, her job was to recreate potions that already existed, stocking the storages and keep the healers constantly replenished.  Using work materials and substances to further her own undeniable need to seek fulfillment in new knowledge would not have been taken very well among her more stoic colleagues

In reality, she wasn’t even sure if she could discover anything new without being discovered herself. How would the new wizarding world take to the advancement of magic of any form by a former traitor turned Muggle-born potioneer? Despite the relatively peaceful six years she had spent in His world it seemed somewhat risky to indulge in her more curious nature should it be determined she was being sneaky and suspicious.

Yet, goodness it felt damn good to do it.

With a few mumbled goodbyes she headed toward the nearest fireplace, one among many that were scattered throughout the grounds, and dipped careful fingers among the light colored powder that rocked in a simple gold plated cup bolted over the mantle. Despite her license in Apparition, it was less jarring to use the Floo Network during mundane moments of travel. Granted, she didn’t prefer either method of travel if she was being honest. Still, she was certain that using the Floo made those in the hospital space more comfortable with her presence. Nobody would have cared for the idea of Ms. Hermione Granger, brains of the Golden Trio, able to just poof in and out of wherever she pleased. She didn’t care how tolerant those around her seemed to be, it must have been unsettling to work with someone who still visibly represented a war nobody had wanted during a time everyone was comically trying to forget.

It was just unfortunate that her own scars from the battle weren’t as easy to leave behind.

There’s a sense of displacement and then her feet were once more on solid ground as Hermione stepped out from the Floo onto the street of Diagon Alley. Despite the time the cobblestone shopping area was filled with people in robes of various colors and stature. It wasn’t an unusual sight, the current peace had been more than enough for most shop owners to return to their brightly lit establishments and attend to wizards and witches with galleons burning a hole in their pockets, but sometimes it was a jarring reminder of what could have been and what now was. Even the familiar smell of cooking foods and sweets was nearly enough to lure her down a hypnotic path of remembrance. She ignored the tugging on her consciousness though in favor of stalking along the happily talking and not as subdued wizards crowding the space. She could understand their ease, their happiness, but she felt detached from it. There was no clutch for her of jolly friends and comrades to celebrate the bustling economy and welcomed reprieve from death and destruction.

This was fine though, nothing was on fire at least.

Unbothered she took up a casual stroll. Her destination wasn’t that far, and despite the heavy crowds it was easy enough for someone of her size to weave through them but her eyes were more prone to wander when her mind was silenced. It was nice to look at the sleepy-eyed owls in the window of Eeylops Emporium and catch a whiff of the cooking meats as she passed the Leaky Cauldron, but she only stopped her wandering when she stood before Magical Menagerie, as she had done for several days in a row

She never went in, she couldn’t muster the resolve despite being a Gryffindor, but it was a place she’d been compelled to watch lately. She stood in the same posture she’d done the night before and the night before that with a carefully constructed blank mask of resignation as the old wooden door swung open and Hogwart’s bound children spilled out with new companions to accompany their innocent journey through education. She envied them, mostly. Not just because of the childish purity that oozed from them--had she ever been that untainted? That unaware?--but because of their ability to reconnect with another beast. She hadn’t seen Crookshanks after the war and now, years later, she doubted he’d survived the assault on The Burrow. Mostly, she stood there and remembered her childhood companion, losing hours to memories she swore she’d put away but couldn’t properly contain. Then, with twitching fingertips, she’d leave to head home instead of entering the magical pet shop like she’d originally intended

Today would be no different. She’d stand. She’d stare. She’d wonder about the infrastructure of Hogwart’s itself--who was in charge? What did they teach? Then she’d leave to retreat  to her small nearly empty abode with its one floor and one room to eat and sleep, only to return to St. Mungo’s for her shift with the coming dawn so that she could feel useful for a scant eight hours. This was existence, a carefully planned and predictable existence. She’d grown to like it, expect it… Nothing changed and perhaps nothing ever would, at least not in her lifetime.

Then a difference, a sudden unwelcome difference, in the form of one screeching loud squawk and the appearance of a black bobbing blur. She lifted her arms with a cry and hunched over defensively from the abrupt assault of wind and feathers against her upper torso as her attacker called out unhappily. The erratic ‘fawp fawp fawp’ of wings against the flesh of her covered arms was entirely unsettling. Furthermore, the constant angry peck at any available flesh it could find coupled with its hectic flying pattern around her vicinity was enough to not only be infuriating but also difficult to protect against. If this was it and He was sending some sort of bird assassin to remove her presence from the wizarding world this was a great start to an uncomfortable, slow, and painful end. As it was she could have reached for her wand, but it seemed rather prudent to protect her face from the angry pecks that seemed aimed at her nose and lips through a combination of both her upheld arms. Eventually, as she stepped back in a haphazard piss-poor attempt at escape, she tripped and the hard painful sensation of her rump hitting the cobblestone was enough to make her snarl out a-- “Bloody hell!”

It was time for a new strategy. Defense forgotten she flapped her arms forward in a manner that must have been not only comical but ineffective but she could have cared less of being seen in her currently undignified heap of strewn legs and robes. Still, the attack did cease, if it could have been called a true attack, and suddenly her lap was filled with a heavy weight as what she assumed as her black bird killer settled there.

She took deep calming breathes but her heart was ramped up, set to thundering against her rib cage through a combination of fear and boiling fury. The flames of that anger curled through her belly with the sort of intensity she hadn’t felt since her youth. It was vibrant, _different_ , colorful… so much more than the detached sense of resignation that had filled her since the ending of the war and for two split moments she felt as if every nerve in her being was poised, vibrating, and _alive._

Then she realized that her furious and erratic screams from earlier had attracted a crowd, some of which were staring at her with the sort of disdain the proud and regal only reserved for the uncouth and barbaric. Immediately that anger began to fizzle, replaced instead by lingering resentment and enough embarrassment that her fair skin flushed red

“H-hello.” She croaked, her gaze set to flitter about the crowd in an attempt to appear under control but not have to look any particular witch or wizard directly in the eyes. “Perfectly fine here. Everything is alright.”

A wizard or two gave her a withering look but when the first wandered back to his surely important plans the rest dispersed to attend to their agendas. Once Hermione was alone in the street again, with nothing but the sounds of the fading crowd and their casual whispers about her disposition left to echo behind them, she turned her irate gaze to the bird on her lap who appeared suspiciously calm despite its behavior upon introduction.

“You slimy knob.” She hissed, but the bird only gave a slight cant of its head either ignoring her or unable to understand her displeasure. With a snort strong enough to displace a strand of wild hair she attempted to shove it off her lap but as soon as her hand drew close it was swift to reach out and take an indignant nip.

“Ouch!” She sneered, unwilling to believe that her current position was being forced by a simple _bird_ , a bird of feathers so black they seemed purple with only the slightest hint of red scattered about the back and near the feet that possessively clutched a thickly bound roll of parchment.

“What is this?” She whispered to the bird but didn’t dare try to retrieve it’s package or stand. It was less painful to remain on her aching rump and nurse her poor hand than attempt any sort of control over the… was this a crow? A raven? No, a rook. Whatever it  was, unless she was willing to move for her wand and make it go away in a puff of feathers and smoke she figured it wouldn’t hurt to remain on the street. She was already dirty, it couldn’t get that much worse.

Or, maybe it could since the bird had started it’s loud screeching again. Only, this time, it didn’t attack her so much as launch up and away from her, leaving behind the scroll and a hurt sense of pride--whatever was left of it.

With a deep breath and shaky hands she scooped up the gift left behind, the heavy weight of the bound scroll in her grip almost unreal. She didn’t receive these sort of things anymore. Letters, hastily scribbled notes, owl delivered parcels, those sorts of communications were pieces of her past. No one had any need to reach her, hadn’t tried to in years, and the fact that a non-owl delivery had taken place right in the middle of Diagon Alley did nothing to ease her twisted nerves. Who, exactly, had that rude uncivilized bird belonged to and why, of all the people that it needed to encounter, had it been her that it sought?

She swallowed thickly, quickly dismissing ideas that the scroll in her tight white-knuckled grip could have been delivered by any of the people she’d once thought of as her comrades. Those were silly fanciful wishes long dead and belonging to a time when rebellion had been preferable to enslavement. Yet, here she was, stumbling to her feet, dreading the information locked behind the scrolls gold, black, and green ribbons and certainly not as enslaved as her imagination would have told her so many years prior.

What would she do, if it was exactly what she’d assumed? Her life held no room for disruption or traitorous action. Furthermore, the wriggling sensation of relief at the idea that it might NOT be from any of her previous contacts seemed _wrong_ in a manner she couldn’t properly fathom.

Yet, she wouldn’t let fear of the unknown weigh her down with unnecessary burden. There was no reason to be frightened of words on a piece of parchment and her future was unchangeable, no matter what was hidden beyond the decorative ribbons that held it together. If this were some sort of note of desperation, sent by some wayward member of her fallen faction, they certainly wouldn’t have bothered to doll it up like some sort of socialite invitation.

Oh. Wait a minute.

She bit her bottom lip and spared only a moment to adjust her work robes before she took off down the street toward a familiar building. Her mind twisted in spirals of nearly incoherent thought--an invitation? Was this an invitation? From who? How? Why? She felt like she was floating, moving forward on half-formed theories instead of completely following the notion. One moment, one little inconsistency, and suddenly her hard-learned pattern of forced normalcy was slipping away from her to be replaced by the mystery of the unknown and a taste of intrigue. Maybe it was misplaced excitement that turned her steady walk into a jog. After all, it was just a piece of paper, not some great symbol of purpose or a more fulfilling future but she couldn’t help her curiosity nor her interest at the disruption.

With barely a moment's hesitation, she shoved open the door to the Leaky Cauldron, unable to even spare an apology to an older woman who hobbled out of the way just in time to avoid being thrust toward the ground due to Hermione’s wild action. Normally she took a bit more care when she entered the old establishment, at least in making sure she wasn’t about to bowl over some poor unsuspecting witch or wizard but this time, well… this time, the only thing on the forefront of her mind was taking a quiet corner as her own and unfurling her scroll.

Other than the barking curse toward her back from the woman leaving the Cauldron no other patrons paid her much mind and it was easy enough to stalk through the crowds toward a table set up against the far wall. Here, she suspected she’d remain undisturbed by drunken wizards who claimed to recognize her from faded papers and if the scroll revealed some sort of deep dark terrible secret she’d at least be able to shroud her reaction away in the darkness the rather poor lighting in the pub naturally created. So, with a screech of the chair as she collapsed into the barely stable seating she rested the scroll and her slightly trembling hands out in front of her.

Alright, she thought. It was time to take a deep breath and hope for the best. Yet, she had no idea what she was really hoping for. Some cryptic message from The Boy, or an ornamental invitation to some grand event that she probably wouldn’t go to at the end of the day. Though, it was the thought that counted, right? The thought that maybe someone, anyone, might remember her sacrifices and achievements despite not being The-Boy-Who-Lived-Or-Maybe-Didn’t.

Nevertheless, she felt a bit preposterous at her reaction, or maybe it was just adrenaline that made her fumble with the ribbons. After all, she had been attacked by a very vicious and agile bird and it only made sense that she was nervous in unraveling its delivery.

At least it couldn’t possibly be a howler.

With a slight shove Hermione rolled the remaining frivolous ribbons off the scroll before she unfurled it entirely so that, with narrowed gaze, she could read its contents--

_You have been invited--_ It started, and immediately Hermione felt an odd mixture of dread and suspense-- _to the Malfoy Manor Autumn Revel to celebrate a grand announcement from our Lord and Magnificent Savior. Join the Malfoy family and His most esteemed as we usher in a new era of traditions and prestige._

Her breath caught and for a moment she forgot where she was. There was no laughter, no clink of dishes and mugs as patrons ate and drunk away their sorrows, no gruff language as people harshly whispered bitter stories of the past. There was only Hermione and the letter, a letter that she was beyond certain must have been mistakenly delivered to the wrong person. Or at least a falsified document meant to cause her some sort of distress. Yet, as her eyes unwillingly roamed the message again she caught the rest of the message settled next to the illustrious Malfoy seal just barely hidden by the still rolled up portion of parchment in the prettiest handwriting she’d ever seen--

_For One Guest. . ._

_Hermione Jean Granger._


	2. set

Hermione leaned back against the creaky chair with enough force that, for a moment, she worried it would tumble backward. Fortunately, she was met with only the groan of her weight shifting upon the old wood and the slightly precarious upwards tilt of the two front legs as they briefly left the ground.  It was an obvious enough warning to be a bit more gentle with her antics. In her grip, she still held onto the parchment and it’s odd unexpected invite. Never, either before or after the war, would she have expected to receive some sort of request for her presence in the place where she assumed she’d never be welcomed. Her memories of Malfoy Manor were vivid and crystal clear, filled with the cold disinterested gaze of the manor’s madam and the horrifying terror she’d experienced beneath her sister. Just the idea of stepping foot onto the lands where blood purity had been the major driving force to her torture--that and His demand for The Boy and her faction--was enough to cause a few beads of sweat to trail down the surface of her forehead. She wasn’t hot, far from it, but the chill… the discomfort… the sudden budding of emotions she had thought long gone and inconsequential to her survival was enough to inspire a choking stifling sensation in her chest. 

She took a deep breath, then another, before she moved her pecked at and red marked hand to rub down the length of her face in flabbergasted disbelief. Why would the Malfoy family find her interesting enough to invite to any particular revel, Autumn themed or otherwise? They had made it rather clear that her impurity was enough to inspire great acts of prejudice toward her person. In actuality, she’d been rather lucky thus far in avoiding this particular family and any others that had been disillusioned by His propaganda. Granted, blood prejudice was an aspect of wizarding history that hadn’t just cropped up upon His inspiration to rule. It had been around for ages, dating back to Merlin, she supposed, not that researching such dark aspects of history had been her cup of tea or anything. It was just that such ideals had been there before Him and had only strengthened during His warlord activities. Surprisingly, His reign hadn’t actually inspired the spree of hate she’d been expecting. Again, no one had actually approached her about her status as a ‘mudblood’ since her youth and the only discomfort people seemed to feel around her was due to her undesirable status six years ago and perhaps the oddity of her still breathing form--if she had expected to hang from the gallows for her crimes against Him during her Hogwart’s tenure than certainly others had thought the same.

These thoughts did not bring her comfort, however. Post-war political change or otherwise The Dark Lord and His followers had been a rather vocal and very visible collective, taking on various jobs in His ministry to ensure His indisputable authority. She’d seen a few of them once or twice in a column skimmed in the Daily Prophet so there was no doubt that those very powerful people would also be among those collected in any capacity near any Malfoy affair. That was dangerous for her, wasn’t it? No matter what sort of illusion He thought He could weave she wasn’t so naive as to think every wizard and witch in Britain found her worthy of her humble St. Mungo’s station. Certainly not Lucius Malfoy and definitely not any of His most trusted. 

Furthermore, if He was at this gathering to make some formal announcement of great importance than…  _ she _ would be there as well. It was more than just navigating pure-blood aristocrats. It would be navigating every ferocious, tenacious, killer He’d ever employed and there was no doubt in her mind that any true reveling to be had would be soiled as soon as she was spotted by one madness-stricken Bellatrix.

Or, was she still off her rocker? It wasn’t like she’d heard much about the woman or what He had done with her once the war was over and the Ministry rearrangement took place. Politics had no place in her world and so long as they weren’t dragging Muggle-borns off to never been seen again she’d mostly left the intricacies of rule to those who had won the war. Not that she’d had a choice in the matter.

Either way accepting such a preposterous invitation would only spell disaster for her later, or at least an extremely uncomfortable time no doubt filled with less than subtle digs at her character and losses. With a soft sneer, she dug into her robes, as her head dropped onto the palm of her open hand in a manner that clearly expressed her agitation and disappointment. She’d been scratched up and pecked at for this? No wonder the bird had seemed so adamant about causing her distress if one considered the disposition of those who had sent it in the first place. Yet, when she felt the familiar warmth of her wand the overall sense of exasperation started to lessen. She still had her magic, she still had her life, she was  _ something _ here, a great potioneer of worth and not even some ominous invitation from the enemies of her past could destroy what she’d managed to obtain in His world of supposed equality wrapped up in traditions and blood. 

She’d vanish this invitation away and with it the tight knot of remembered despair in her chest.  

“Hermione?”

Her wand hovered over the parchment but the familiar sensation of flowing ability didn’t warm her body or appear from the tip of the wood. She’d been halted, stunned from her moment of finality and concentration by the dreamy quality of the voice that floated over to her table. With a soft breath, she lifted her tired gaze of rich brown to view the violet cloaked wizard that stood with tilted head before her table of falsified-privacy. She blinked once, then again before she narrowed eyes and tried to peer past the darkness of the hood that cast their face in shadow. It only took a moment before she found her voice but it felt like an eternity to summon up her courage.

“E-excuse me?”

It was unusual for anyone to feel so painfully familiar to her. She’d mingled amongst strangers and work associates for years yet had only heard such wistful tones within the privacy of her fractured dreams. For an instant she was stunned into silence, unaware that the intensity of her staring might have been considered rude in more prestigious circles. Yet, she was in the Leaky Cauldron, a pub to be clear, and there was little prestigious about the place. It’s dark and dank nature was very in tune with it’s given name and the thick phlegmy cough of the patron at the table nearby left a lot to be desired. 

Yet all of that was ignorable in the face of the moment and the unspoken implications that it brought. The scroll was soon crushed as she slapped both her hands upon it and her fingertips twitched as the cloaked figure effortlessly turned on their heel to depart from her table and approach another without so much as a word to her strained exclamation. Her throat felt tight and her voice was nothing more than a strangled sound of anxiety as the realization that they were leaving washed over her like a metaphorical freezing bucket of water. She didn’t have the nerve to call the figure back and demand their name. She barely had the ability to move her legs, which felt weak and numb beneath the rotted wood of her pilfered table, but luckily she wouldn’t need to.

Instead of stalking right out of the pub the figure at the other table wordlessly grabbed a chair with fair-skinned and feminine fingers. The man who had been nursing his foggy glass of murky liquid looked up briefly, but whatever complaint he might have had died upon his tongue as the figure lifted a slender fingertip and held it up in warning. His mouth shut abruptly, and the hard frown that his thin lips created was soon directed toward her table once the figure, and their stolen chair, made their way back to her position. The obnoxious screech of the legs against the floor was enough to gain the brief attention of a few patrons, including dirty-cough-man, but soon enough their focus returned to other matters like their half-filled cups and slurred conversations. 

She bit her bottom lip, tense and silent as the figure adjusted the chair and promptly--though gracefully--took a seat in it. 

“You were very difficult to find.” The figure whispered contemplatively as if Hermione weren’t truly capable of responding and perhaps she wasn’t. “I’ve searched for a bit, I thought you might have left Great Britain, you see. But… the Wrackspurts. I felt them here and I haven’t for a long time.”

The urge to stand up abruptly quickly came and went though she couldn’t deny the newfound nervous energy at how absurdly looney the entire idea of Wrackspurts were. She wanted to slam her hands down on the table again. She wanted to yell at how positively ludicrous something that could not so clearly be defined by practical logic and proof actually was. Yet magic, in and of itself, was often impractical. As impractical as unprompted chance visits and so-called fate. There was only one person she knew that could so passionately believe in the impossible and illogical and succeed thoroughly on wistful thinking and eccentric phrases. 

“I’ve been here.” Because there was nowhere else for her to go. “I’ve been here, Luna.”

“Then I’m glad I’ve found you.” 

The parchment complained as it was crunched within her tight grip, held firmly between her wand and hard pressed thumb. “You lived. You really lived?”

Furthermore, she’d looked for her?

There was no immediate response. Instead, Luna flicked her hood back with but a twist of her wrist--utilizing swift wandless magic to generate the breeze that did so--revealing tumbling bleach-blonde hair and the same gentle smile she’d worn throughout her youth. Very little had changed about her friend, other than the small square-framed glasses that perched perfectly balanced on the bridge of her nose. Yet her eyes, behind the silvery gray dwelled the twisting shadows that she was sure they all carried after reality and maturity had been forced upon them during the war. Her demeanor hadn’t changed, not really, but the child-like innocence and near flighty nature seemed absent in exchange for Luna’s own odd sense of gained wisdom. Though there was no denying that Luna had always been that, even if she’d been strange in her display of it.

“I can’t believe this.” Hermione leaned back in the chair, but she was slow and controlled and it barely groaned as she relaxed. Her gaze stung, blurry with the threat of tears she wouldn’t dare allow to fall. Not here, at least. Yet the overwhelming sense of relief that swept through her was certainly enough to warrant a pinch upon the bridge of her nose. Perhaps this was another dream, just a twisted memory to give her hope for a less than empty future. If that was the case she didn’t dare wake up, not until she thoroughly indulged in the unfurling possibilities presented before her. 

Yet, for every indescribable emotion that tumbled through Hermione, Luna seemed to offer a calmer variation. Her smile widened, and her eyes crinkled in delight, but there was no threat of tears at their reunion only an indisputable sense of content. 

She said she’d been looking for her, after all.

“I lived. You can believe that.” Here Luna paused if only to slap her hand against the flesh of an exposed arm. “Yes yes, I’m certainly here. Say, take a feel!”

Without waiting for a response Luna reached across the table, eagerly gripping Hermione’s trembling hands and pulling them away from the poor parchment she’d been torturing beneath her grip. Her wand tumbled to the table surface with barely a sound, something her mind acknowledged but didn’t focus on. Instead, she focused on the sensation of another human--one she’d missed--touching her, spreading that real tangible warmth that only another living creature and not a heated potion vial, could provide.

She couldn’t help the tear or two that escaped her then.

“Luna,” She croaked, “Where were you?”

Luna kept hold of her hands, squeezing them tightly with an expression that seemed to be far away. For a moment they sat like that, holding hands and not thinking and for once, Hermione’s curiosity was dampened, overwhelmed instead by their reignited comradery.

The moment didn’t last for long, though.

“I was here, in England specifically. Mostly documenting Wrackspurts and other magical creatures. Then, when I was able, I looked for you. I had heard you were alive, around, but not where. It’s difficult to hunt someone when you don’t yet have the means. Why I thought of asking a werewolf for help but I figured that would be frightening for you. Still, they are so good at tracking, very actually. They would have found you. Quickly, might I add.”

Hermione felt somewhat swept away by Luna’s flowing speech. She took great care to pick out the important pieces--she was going to hunt her down with a werewolf??--but she still had so many questions. “He didn’t harm you?”

“He?” Luna asked innocently with tilted head and a slow blink of her eyes.

“Volder--”

Hermione’s speech was interrupted by the soft yet firm ‘shhh’ that came from across the table. 

“We mustn’t speak His name,” Luna said cheerfully, but the nearly painful squeeze she gave her hands and the odd unusual chill of her words was at juxtaposed with her bright disposition. 

“Yes yes, of course.” Hermione tittered, nervous as she cast her gaze about the pub.

“Hmm… we were all harmed by the war. Yet, we were also children and He seemed aware of that.” Luna’s voice was carefully inquisitive as if she were curious about her own thoughts. They lacked the power of judgment Hermione’s own tone might have held, but even she knew that the past no longer inspired just rage and indignation as it once had. She was complacent with life and not the only one.

“I took my N.E.W.T.s outside of Hogwarts when we were given the option,” Luna said, yet left unspoken was the admission that they hadn’t been allowed to return to Hogwarts, at least not to finish their education. She was aware of that much.

Still, she needed more-- “You didn’t say if you were--”

“--He doesn’t care for us to dwell on such things.” Finally, Luna released her hands which proved an unexpected distraction. She’d really enjoyed just touching her and her palms tingled from the lack of warmth. Still, despite her divided focus Hermione couldn’t help but notice how ominous her words seemed. “It’s probably best, I believe the Nargles may be drawn to misery.”

Hermione gave a nervous lick of her lips before she blurted out, “I’m not!”

Luna appeared oblivious to her resulting cringe as some of the nearby tables cast their corner a withering look. Whether Luna noticed or not was up for debate. “Not what?”

“Miserable, that is.” Hermione cleared her throat, “I’ve been doing… fine. I’m a potioneer at St. Mungo’s.”

Luna’s gentle look never wavered and Hermione felt somewhat lightened by the smile that split her lips. She could tell the other witch was genuinely pleased with her progression despite the lingering darkness that blanketed them both. 

Then Luna’s gaze dropped to the crumpled parchment between her still outstretched arms. 

“Ah, you too?”

“Me too?” Hermione allowed her gaze to follow Luna’s own and soon her chin thumped against her chest as she remembered the accursed invitation in her possession. 

“Oh.”

“I have to admit I was surprised…” Luna’s voice cut through the billowing fog of apprehension that had tightened Hermione’s throat and with some effort she was able to lift her eyes toward the other witch and away from her current issue. “But I think it will be interesting.”

“Really? How so?” 

“What could He possibly be announcing that's so important _our_ presence is required?”

There was heavy meaning in that phrase but something else stood out more so-- “Required?”

“I assume so.” Luna said casually, “Mine didn’t seem to leave room for choice.”

“But it says invited--”

“It’s in the wording, really.” Luna interrupted, her gaze steady upon the ceiling now instead of the odd face of displeasure Hermione had made. “There’s no ‘please’ anywhere. It’s sort of rude.”

With a snort, Hermione pulled back her hands, if only to regain possession of her wand and the crumbled invitation. “What does He need me there for?”

Perhaps she’d been bothered by Hermione’s mumble, or maybe by the bitterness that oozed from the words she spoke but soon Luna was focused once more on her position with tilted head and faraway expression.

“What?” She sighed, suddenly tired despite Luna’s company or maybe because of it. 

“Will you go?” 

There was so much weight behind those words.

“Will you?”

Luna let the silence stretched between them while her hands, that were once still and flat on the table's surface, were soon preoccupied with picking idly at the length of her robes beneath the cloak. She took one breath, then another before she wet her bottom lip.

“Well,” Luna murmured, “I didn’t want to go alone.”

Just in case there wasn’t an option not to go at all. 

“When is it?” Hermione conceded, careful to keep her anxiety from dripping through her words. She was not the only one afraid to go at the table and while that was somewhat comforting it did nothing to lessen her unease.

Luna carefully reached across the table and after only a moment of hesitation, she took care to cover Hermione’s hands with her own. They held them together like that for a bit, Hermione merely staring at their combined grip upon the papers and Luna with her gaze directed toward the far wall, as if she were listening to someone else or seeing something only she could see.

It made Hermione feel just a bit jealous, at least Luna hadn’t been alone. Her delusions had surely been enough to keep her company if they were in fact just delusions.

Yet, all too soon she was uncurling her fingertips along with Hermione’s and without much resistance from her, she took the crumpled parchment roll from her possession.

Luna spread the parchment out completely upon the table’s surface before she reached into the sleeve of her robes to reveal her wand. In silence, Hermione watched her mumble beneath her breath a spell she didn’t quite catch and upon tapping the paper twice it split apart into two. Immediately Hermione leaned forward and over the table, her head barely inches apart from Luna’s own as they hunched over the elegant copy of the first invitation and watched the words rearrange themselves into more details.

“They’re so fancy,” Luna whispered, though Hermione withheld her own comment.

After what felt like an unnecessary amount of fanfare and time the duplicate parchment was complete and the fancy wording that had once displayed the general invitation had now spelled out directions for broom-wielders, the appropriate Floo Network address, and of course the time that guests should be sure to arrive at the manor. With a grunt, Hermione fell back into her chair, and this time the thing teetered in more than just warning. If not for the swift flick of Luna’s wand she might have found herself spilled out onto the floor. Granted, even that small humiliation would have been better than whatever she might encounter at the Malfoy revel. 

“That’s…” Luna paused, as if uncertain, once Hermione's seat had stopped it's magical induced correction. Her sentence was left unfinished as she took the parchment in both hands and turned it this way and that, an action that might have been cute if not for the ridiculous time constraint they were under.

“Tomorrow.” Hermione confirmed, “We have to be ready for His revel tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for the kudos and comments, i was very nervous about sharing this. i'm glad i did.


	3. prep

The rest of the evening was uneventful, though not entirely fruitless. They left together after Hermione’s confirmation of the date and a hasty unsatisfying supper. As one, once bills were settled and idle complaints muttered under breath, they stood beyond the old door to the Cauldron and stared down opposite directions of the street. She didn't want to leave Luna, their brief reunion felt strained and awkward by the weight of His revel and the secrets they’d yet shared. Their time seemed fleeting, short, ruined and Hermione desperately wished for just a few more moments for lighter less heavy conversation. They weren’t children anymore, however, constrained to the common rooms of their houses with worries that only pertained to getting good grades and planning impossible schemes. They had jobs, or at least Hermione did--she couldn’t be sure what Luna did exactly nor who she worked for, only that she dealt with magical beasts--and responsibilities that no doubt required their immediate separation. After all, it was impossible to stare endlessly at barely legible script in leather bound books without a good night's sleep.

And yet…

“Come home with me.” Hermione blurted, her heart set to a steady pound against her chest as she continued to stare down the street with a blurry gaze. She felt unnerved by her own request and held captive by the tension that invaded the tight muscles along her hunched shoulders. She needed this, this companionship, this woman with her looney unpredictable behaviours and odd shadow of maturity. She needed one night of pretend where she could imagine a world that didn’t make her so paranoid and so terribly  _ alone. _

She wanted it to feel normal, to feel _right,_ even if she had to accomplish that in an unusual manner.  


“Okay.” Came Luna’s soft reply, but it was her grip upon her wrist that let her know this was fine. That this was okay. Weird, maybe--certainly her younger self wouldn’t have found inviting anyone to her abode for the night very proper--but okay. She wasn’t the only one who had been lonely, she couldn’t have been. Not in this world ruled by elitist and illusions. 

She’d apparated them home then, despite her dislike of the method. She didn’t care that her prowess with the skill was beyond acceptable, nor that she could side-along without much effort, she just didn’t enjoy the sensation of being torn apart, whipped around, then shoved back together again. Yet, it had seemed imperative to return to her flat as quickly as possible least curious eyes find their frozen state suspicious instead of benign or hesitant. Besides, Luna seemed grateful for the swiftness in which they’d arrived. 

Immediately, Luna stepped forward, leaving Hermione in the center of the space to shake off the mild disorientation of apparition. Humming softly she explored her relatively small home and it’s one inconspicuous bedroom. She hadn’t really filled her flat with trinkets or personal items, she’d barely had any after the war. The only personality that infected her home was a simple Gryffindor banner hanging lifelessly over the fireplace and a red and gold scarf tossed haphazardly over a very small--and rather uncomfortable, Hermione had to admit--couch.

The rest of the flat was mundane, with its cream colored carpets and empty white walls. There was only one window that offered a less than magnificent display of black smudged roofs and puffing chimneys. After that, everything was drab and painfully devoid of color. Nothing spectacular to marvel at, no grand decorative collectables or expensive marble based furniture. Just empty forced normalcy. Having Luna wander around it made her feel exposed as if there should have been much more for her personal viewing pleasure. It wasn’t like she wanted to impress her, she had never expected her or anyone else to be there, really. It's just, the place barely looked suitable for a bachelor muggle let alone a woman of her former caliber. 

Once upon a time, she’d imagined so much more for herself.

“It’s lovely, Hermione.” Luna expressed, ever-present smile in place.

“Sure it is.” She responded, dry and unconvinced. The only lovely thing about it was the bedroom and the small library of books she held there stacked neatly against the beaten wooden chest she'd dragged back and forth to Hogwarts in her youth. Maybe that was what she referred to? Certainly, it wasn’t the dreary living room and bare sterile kitchen. 

Still, if Luna caught her sarcasm she didn’t say anything and instead plopped rather heavily on the couch before she began to unbuckle her cloak. 

Despite the fact that the flat was her own she felt somewhat apprehensive as she stood in the center of the living room--suddenly a stranger in her own home-- and watched Luna casually disrobe. Beneath that cloak had been a simplistic black robe, of which she soon parted and spread on the other side of the couch. Underneath that was what Hermione could only describe as ‘Luna’s peculiar wardrobe’, with her multicolored skirt and rainbow faded sweater, but it still fit her nicely. The years had been kind to her, to them both Hermione presumed. It wasn’t like they were that old, close to their late twenties but just barely. Besides, witches aged gracefully and all and eventually even the rings beneath her eyes from lack of sleep would fade. 

“You’ll stay tonight, right?” She reminded. She just wanted to make sure, is all. She didn’t appreciate anyone coming and going from her home at all times of the night.

“Yes,” Luna whispered as she pat the couch in a manner that was rather affectionate. “I’ll sleep here.”

Hermione cleared her throat, “Of course.” Yet discomfort still swam in the pit of her belly, some odd mixture of dread at the knowledge of Luna’s eventually--or maybe, already manifested--disappointment. She couldn’t, mustn’t really, allow Luna to sleep on that lumpy uncomfortable couch. It seemed unethical. “Actually--”

“Hm?” Luna stood up if only to brush her hands down the length of her wrinkled skirt before she took her out wand in preparation of transfiguring her day clothing into something more acceptable for sleep. 

“No no, the couch? That won’t do.” She replied, though the nervous sensation in her belly had done nothing more than make her tone sound eerily weak and unsure. She cleared her throat and tried again, “You’ll hurt your back on that thing.”

“Will I?” Luna quirked a brow, paused mid-spell with eyebrows arched so high she looked  _ really  _ surprised.    


“Yes.” She confirmed, motioning with a wild swing of her hand toward the back door. “We’ll share a bed. My bed.”

“Share… your bed?” 

“Yes, my bed. Is that a problem?”

For a moment they stood together, Luna with that tilted head and Hermione with pressed thin lips. She felt under scrutiny, as if Luna could see every little fractured hole in her stability, every washed away dream, every painfully crooked nail in her persona… She’d had to hastily build up her walls after the war with old tools and rusted materials, but she’d done it, she’d survived, she’d adapted.

But why did it feel as if Luna was going to tear all that down? 

With a deep breath, she prepared to retract her invitation. She wasn’t sure why she’d given it in the first place. They didn’t need to share a bed, the idea of it was preposterous now that she thought about it. They were two grown women, not little girls preparing to have a sleep-over. 

Yet, Luna spoke before the words had left her lips. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Hermione squeaked, releasing a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“Okay,” Luna confirmed, turning around to gather her robes and cloak into a messy bundle.   


“Yes, okay. Yes. Good.” She repeated herself as she moved, shuffling feet that felt like lead toward the open doorway that led to her sleeping quarters. “Make yourself comfortable, I just need to wash my face.”

“Of course,” Luna said, though there was something oddly playful in her words.

“Okay. Good. Yes.” Hermione babbled, flushed and cringing.

She rushed to the bathroom, sure that her casual unassuming walk had devolved into some sort of panicked run near the end. She closed the door as lightly as she could have with fumbling hands but winced when she heard the slam of the door echo throughout the bathroom. At least, with the loud noise, she thought she couldn’t hear Luna’s tittering laughter on the other side.

“Alright, get it together.” It was just Luna on the other side of the door. Luna, one of her closest friends. Luna, who she hadn’t seen in ages. Luna, whose appearance had been as sudden as the dreaded invitation she’d received but unlike the latter, she was incredibly grateful for her presence. How often had she sat within her empty walls listening to the world beyond her window and wondering what reality could have been like if The Boy had succeeded and Ronald had remained? She wondered if Luna had thought the same thing, if Luna had wondered where Ginny had gone, Neville, George, anyone. The chaos of the final battle had split them up something horrid and the fates of her companions had been purposely kept from her those long weeks after when her future had been so utterly controlled by the ebb and flow of one man’s schemes. 

Now she had one of her friends back, right on the other side of that door, and she was acting like… like… some sort of attention starved git. 

Solemnly she shuffled to the sink and turned on the water. She didn’t come into the bathroom to reflect on her behavior. It didn’t mean anything. She was just excited for companionship. Perhaps, when there was time, she could ask Luna if she knew anything about anyone else, about Ronald, about Ha--

No no, she mustn’t think his name. She wasn’t sure, she could never be sure, just who or what could peer into her mind.

With a shaky breath followed by a grunt as she steeled her mind, leaned over the sink, and enjoyed the soothing chill of the water as she splashed it against her face. Quickly she took care of her needs and changed her clothes, unwilling to waste more time on meaningless introspection. She was fine. Perfectly fine. 

After she shrugged into her long-sleeved nightshirt with its obnoxious writing that screamed ‘Glory to the Holyhead Harpies’ she slipped out the door. Despite the softly glowing table lamp beside the bed being the only provided light in the space anyone could have made out Luna among the flickering shadows.

“W-wha…” Hermione croaked, her gaze glued to the Ravenclaw who had taken it upon herself to wear the most unfashionable thing she could have found in any clothing store.

“It’s cute, isn’t?” Luna gave a small twirl, showing off the overall oddity of the nightwear.

“I… suppose.” Hermione had to begrudgingly admit, but soon her lips split into a smile she almost hadn’t caught, “And where did you find… this?”

Luna was dressed in a onesie, there was no other way to describe it. Except that it was stylized to make her look like a brown furred bear with a light golden tummy. Her hands were even overexaggerated paws and the hood attached to the onesie had round fluffy ears, downturned angry eyes, and a bear nose. It was incredibly cartoonish, but on Luna it seemed to just… fit.

“You have a lovely nightshirt.” Luna complimented, but Hermione felt somewhat underdressed in comparison to the other witch.

“Thank you.” She kept her smile nonetheless and motioned wordlessly toward the bed. “Do you work tomorrow?”

“Hm, if I want to. I never know when I work because I never know if I’ll feel like working.”

“Uh huh.” Hermione frowned, wondering what any of that meant. Did she make her own schedule or… well, it didn’t matter. Instead of questioning Luna further she pulled back the heavy cotton covers that blanketed the bed.

“We should go shopping tomorrow,” Luna said, right before she literally leapt onto the bed, disrupting the calm reveal Hermione had been trying to accomplish. “Get something nice. I’m sure the Malfoys would be pleased.”

Hermione hissed as the blankets went askew. “Sure, because I would love to please the Malfoys.”

“Excellent!” Luna flopped onto her belly, stretched out as she rubbed her face across one of three pillows Hermione had upon her bed.

What an odd ritual…

“Luna.” She gently, but firmly, grabbed a stray arm and tucked it on the other woman’s side of the bed, before she moved to slip underneath the covers. “You seem… calm about tomorrow. They hate us, they hate…”

_ Me. _

“Maybe, but the war has ended and people have changed.” Luna turned her head so that the twisting shadows of her silvery grey could be seen. “I’m interested in the summoning, aren’t you?”

It would have been a waste to lie and say she wasn’t. With the initial terror gone all that was left was an undercurrent of excitement laced curiosity. Yet, instead of answering, Hermione rolled over to flick off the light, plunging the room into darkness with only a shift of her wrist and the familiar warmth of wandless magic. It wouldn’t do her any good to think about it tonight, not when she felt so many different things, things she hadn’t felt in  _ years. _

So she closed her eyes and tried to focus on sleep. Yet, the blessed silence of unconsciousness was evasive. Instead of the darkness behind her lids, all she could focus on was the idea that someone else was in her bed, someone warm and  _ real _ . It was difficult to ignore, not because Luna kept shifting about--which she did--but because she wanted… something, something she couldn’t really describe.

“Luna.” Hermione sighed, exasperated and awake when all she wanted to be was unconscious.

“Sorry,” She chirped, and soon enough she was still.

Time passed, but Hermione didn’t drift. Instead, she wondered, wondered if this was a trick of her mind. Wondered how Luna had survived the past few years…

“Luna?” She asked the darkness, but there came no reply.  


She spoke anyway.

“I wonder, sometimes, if they’re dead. The others. Ronald, Ginny, Neville.... I’d wondered if you were dead too, but then I  thought it was all a bloody waste of time.” She paused in her speech, thought she heard Luna move, but when everything was still she continued again. “He, The Boy, what happened to him? Should I care? What does it matter? All this wondering when nothing can come of it and I can’t really ask, it’ll bring trouble. Any thoughts about the war seem to bring trouble. I’ve seen it, the  _ trouble _ that is, once or twice. They come when it’s late… to take those who aren’t settling right. A week or two ago they took Mr. Botts. They were like shadows, but not very quiet, and they dragged him out of his own home.”

She burrowed a little further into the blanket and curled her knees close to her chest. She told herself it was fine like this, that she wasn’t afraid of being taken, that she was a valuable member to His reign and perfect in His society, but that was a lie. Who knew how to truly be safe? How to avoid suspicion? 

“It must have been awful, I think, to be taken like that. I wonder if they let him speak, if they asked him if he was a traitor or… anything, really. Nobody stopped them. _I_ didn’t stop them. It’s not unusual, what they do, it’s just… jarring. Rude, to be honest, what with all the noise the ones they take make. Who could get used to that?”

Maybe she had.

She changed the subject. “I thought I was alone, but you came back. I’m so… surprised. It’s been a long time, you see, since I’ve talked like this. To anyone and when you held my hand--”

She choked, unable to finish. Sobbing had not been on her agenda. Adults did not cry like overwhelmed children but--

“It’s been so hard. To be empty, to keep going.”

She sucked in a lungful of air, trying to control the pitch of her voice so that her sorrowful whispers did little to disturb the woman at her back. Yet, it was impossible to completely repress the strength of her shaking and when she felt the weight of the witch at her back shift closer she felt rather bad for disturbing her slumber. She meant to apologize and certainly she tried to but no words came out. She was done with words, there was only this, her barely functional walls and the cracks that trembled down their surface.

There was a soft sigh at her back, but it wasn’t done in exasperation as Hermione had suspected. It was quickly followed by the encircling of strong arms--bear arms, she supposed--that pulled her tightly against the chest of the other witch as she tucked her head into the small space left open between Hermione’s collarbone and neck.

There was no need for explanation, in that one motion, in the entangling of their legs and the firm yet needed embrace that surrounded her she found her answers and her comfort.

That night she was able to sleep without the dreams or the suffocating weight of paranoia. 


	4. and go

 

She completed her work with surprising efficiency. Surprising for her superior, not to her. It wasn’t difficult for her to create potions, even the most inexperienced witch or wizard would have been able to replenish most of the storage supplies. It was the potions that needed more controlled substances that were considered difficult, and even then Hermione found them easy to brew, just time consuming. Most of her time, and thus most of her lag when it came to completing her daily lists, was used exploring tattered parchment and less than legible script from books her superior and his council had found worthless. A preposterous idea, there was no book that was completely worthless--unless that book delved in divination. Those older texts and stained papers often contained a great deal of magical theory that was worth exploration and explore she often did when she thought she could get away with it.

Today though, today she had no time to comb the dusty section of St. Mungo’s library in search of creative inspiration. Her idle experimentation would need to wait since Luna was waiting to meet with her at Madam Malkin’s. They had a very important affair to attend, after all, and Luna had expressed the need to purchase robes for the occasion.

Granted, if not for Luna, Hermione would have shown up in her St. Mungo’s attire for all she cared.

“Excuse me, sir! Goodbye, sir!” Hermione yelled as she hastily walked past the superior’s desk and toward the threshold of the labs.

“Ms. Granger!” He exclaimed, a bit baffled by her quick moving shuffle and rushed attitude, “Don’t you have--”

Yet, he paused in his speech when his gaze settled on the nearby clock plastered on the wall.

“Oh.”

“Sir?” Hermione questioned sure that her impatience was easily noted in the tension that thrummed through her limbs and the way she ground her teeth. For once in her career she was leaving on time, no mess, no issues for the next shift and he wanted to hold her up.

“You finished the list?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

“That would be the definition of finishing something, yes.”

He grew flustered, his normally pale face suddenly awfully red. “Ms. Granger, I am merely asking because normally…”

She gave an impatient huff, “I’m sorry, sir, but did you not tell me to be more punctual with my leaving?”

“Yes but--”

“It was my understanding that dallying was frowned upon. I am trying to do better sir, to provide my value to you, St. Mungo, and The Dark Lord.”

That made him clamp his mouth shut and with a shaky hand, he reached for the wrinkled handkerchief situated in the pocket of his robes.

“Yes well, of course. We must all do better to provide our Lord with the best service we can.” He mumbled, automatically and hushed as if he were afraid he’d summon Him with just the utterance of His title.

“Indeed,” Hermione replied dryly. “Yet, I must be on my way, sir. I am to attend the Malfoy Autumn Revel--”

“The Autumn Revel?” He yelled, flabbergasted or perhaps unbelieving. His voice echoed loudly in the empty labs, enough to rattle the cleaned and properly placed vials that lined the space. He coughed as if embarrassed of his outburst but his eyes remained wide and bulged, giving him the resemblance of a choked up fish.

“You were invited to the Autumn Revel? To hear our Lord speak to His closest followers?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at his conspiratory whisper, “Yes, sir. You know of it?”

“Do I know of it?” He huffed right before he puffed out his chest and splayed a hand across it. “Of course, I know of it. Everyone knows of it! He graces the Malfoy Manor every Autumn! His appearance is a great honor and to be in His presence even more so. He reveals His upcoming political ideals and often asks those present about the impact. Think of it, our Lord asking for our opinion! Only the greatest and most esteemed wizarding families are invited to that event and even then there’s a waiting list!”

Was he outraged at her lack of knowledge or at the fact that she got to go?

“I’m sorry, sir. This is my first time being invited. I was not aware that this event was so… special to the wizarding community.”

“You should take care while you are there, girl. “ Hermione barely repressed her sneer but covered her agitation well, “His Inner Circle and the Malfoy’s themselves will be there! How you managed to procure an invitation I cannot fathom.”

“Me neither, sir.” She sighed.

Her superior narrowed his eyes and his mouth parted as if he had more to say but another glance at the clock was enough to halt his speech. With a shake of his head, he gave a wave of his hand--

“Alright Ms. Granger, run along with you. I do hope you represent us well, perhaps you could mention our department to our Lord? We could do great things with a bit more funding. Maybe clean up a bit, I don’t want Him to think the bulk of us are…”

He sniffed a bit indignantly.

“Scruffy.”

Hermione held in her retort and instead replied in a tight voice-- “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Then he was done with her, perhaps fully expecting her to run off and attend to her appearance so that the precious Dark Lord didn’t think St. Mungo’s potions department was occupied by… the scruffy. She had half a mind to remain standing there, to waste time, anything to irritate the man who sat at his desk and pointedly ignored her as he scribbled on his parchment and mumbled under his breath about impossibilities. She might have if the thought of Luna waiting didn’t get her hustling again.

There was no time for the Floo, and if there was she was simply too impatient to consider the possibility. One moment she was jogging down the halls and the next she was before Madam Malkin’s, gagging as she shook off the abrupt sensation of apparition. She didn’t do this often enough, perhaps she should have practiced more after the war.

“Aaah.” Luna’s humming voice came to her from beside the building and Hermione couldn’t repress her smile even as her heart thundered with dread. “Shall we?”

“Let’s get this over with.”

Hermione would not have considered herself a very wealthy witch. She made a living and functioned well enough with what she earned by living in the flat she’d chosen and forgoing lavish things. Her account was sizable, humbly sizable, due to a combination of savings and her deposited salary. To spend exuberant amounts of currency on the unnecessary had always been painful to her. The fact that she was now, currently, spending an exuberant amount of money on a dress-robe she’d probably only wear to this one major occasion was _especially_ painful.

“If you are attending the Malfoy revel, my dear, you must dress the part.” Malkin fussed, and for a split moment, Hermione wanted to do something untoward toward the woman, especially when she yanked on her hips in an especially uncomfortable way. “Don’t slouch, dear.”

Luna’s cheerful chattering didn’t help, nor did the giggles that spilled from her lips at Hermione’s expense.

“When is it your turn, exactly?” She asked Luna during a very small and desperately needed break from fitting.

“I already had something picked out. It saves time. I knew you’d take a while.”

Hermione was not particularly fond of the sly grin that graced Luna’s face at that admission but there was very little she could do about it, especially when Malkin returned with floating pins and needles.

“Oh… oh, Merlin save me.”

Despite her fussing, Malkin was a professional and she finished sizing her rather quickly, despite how long Hermione convinced herself it took. She then offered an assortment of choices at a time that was not only efficient but needed if they were to make the revel on time.

“It’s fine, Hermione.” Luna said wistfully, “It’s only four. Barely, four really.”

“How is it barely four? It’s either four or it isn’t.” Hermione growled, turning this way and that in the floating mirrors, oddly alright with being exposed before Luna in just a bra and her knickers.

“It’s a little bit of four.”

“A little bit of wha--”

“Ms. Granger, I have a few more choices for you.”

Malkin’s voice was a welcome relief compared to Luna’s very good attempt at confusing her and she gladly stepped off the raised platform where she’d stood to approach the rack of well-crafted robes of various expensive fabrics.

“The red robe, I think. With the gold trim. You’ll wear a nice dress under it.” Luna offered helpfully, to which Malkin gave a slow nod of agreement.

Exhausted from the overall ordeal of dressing nice for a Malfoy occasion Hermione didn’t hesitate to gently feel along the seams of the offered robe. Its long sleeves would do well enough against the crisp chill that would rapidly become more prominent as dusk bled to evening and the center could easily be opened and closed. It was fancy, a perfect representation of Gryffindor prestige and despite Hermione’s overall dislike of spending money, she couldn’t deny that the purchase might just be… worth it.

“Alright. Let’s do it.” She submitted to their choice and with a wide grin Luna soon dragged her away from the mirrors toward the next assortment of things she’d have to squeeze in and out of.

Ultimately, the dress search was a great deal quicker. Luna had an idea of what she’d wear beneath her dress-robes and bore no room for argument when she picked out a chiffon colored dress, where the front crossed over to accentuate her neck and shoulders. It was backless and sleeveless--the latter of the combination causing her a slight moment of distress--but Luna assured her she’d look lovely in her own dreamy way so Hermione had no choice but to purchase it.

Afterward, she looked for a matching scarf of some sort, made from the same thin breezy magical material of the dress that she could maybe wrap around her arm to hide the scarred over flesh that screamed ‘Mudblood’. Perhaps Malkin had read her mind, or had seen her affliction, but she’d been able to leave with all her packages and a decorative cloth to wrap around her arm.

So far so good.

Luna, on the other hand, was buzzing with an indescribable energy. Hermione could practically see it oozing from her in every little action. In her dreamy smile, in her distracted words...  she could barely believe that she was so excited to return to a place where she’d once been held captive. To see a collective that had tried to slaughter them. Or, perhaps Luna firmly believed that things had changed. She wouldn’t have been the first to claim the world was _better_ despite their failure.

He was good at that, at charming pure-bloods, wasn’t He? Charismatic, intelligent, and powerful. What other traits did you need to create the perfect dictator?

Only an army of obsessively obedient wand swinging soldiers, she supposed.

“Shall we prepare?” Luna asked, though the comment facetious in nature as if their entire situation should be attended to with a semblance of joviality instead of dread.

“I suppose.”

Yet, when Luna said prepare what she’d really meant was apparate back to Hermione’s flat and twirl about until she grew frustrated from her antics. Luna’s definition of readiness seemed the exact opposite and more than once she’d had to delay her hair-straightening charm perfection to shove Luna out of her space. Where she’d once craved the touch of a companion now she heavily considered banishing Luna from her home. Surely, there was a spell for that.

“Are you done yet?” Hermione hissed, if only because Luna had once again wandered over to her vanity space to tug absentmindedly upon her somewhat straightened locks.

“Hm?” She made a soft sound in the back of her throat, some meaningless noise to cover the sound of Hermione’s low growl, “There were some pixies--”

“No.” Hermione interrupted as she waved a hand flippantly in her direction. “ I don’t want to hear it.”

With a soft hum, Luna twisted on her heels and wandered away leaving Hermione blessedly alone to finish enchanting an auburn colored clutch to safely carry multiple items, including her wand. One could never be too careful and certainly, it wouldn’t hurt to sneak in a potion or two, but it was all busy work. She’d finished dressing a half an hour ago and while Luna had taken to toying about there was no denying that her companion had been finished for some time. Maybe they were both waiting on the other to admit they were ready, maybe Luna was as nervous as she was.

Not that she had a reason to be, she looked rather magnificent in her purple toned dress-robes which had been expertly parted to reveal a tight-fitting lighter violet colored shift. Hermione might have thought it tunic looking if not for how well it clung to her person and the pretty different colored flowers that lined the bottom. With bound up hair and her small glasses balanced on the top of her head--did she not need those to see?--she looked appropriate enough to attend the revel, even with the added unusual touches and flower-crafted collar that accentuated her throat.

She, on the other hand, had done the absolute bare minimum. She didn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, that she was attempting to show off to the purity brigade that roamed the manor. She’d left her hair down--at least it was straight--and semi-slung over shoulder while her only accessory, not including the clutch, was the carefully and inconspicuously wrapped scarf around her carved into flesh. She didn’t want to appear ‘scruffy’ and dazzling wasn’t even a word she’d of used to describe herself either. She was just _normal_ , perhaps. Or, maybe adequately dressed to attend. At least, that was the idea. She was hoping to draw as little attention to herself as possible so that she could go unnoticed and unbothered.

Of course, that would be an impossible task to accomplish if Luna clung to her all night.

“Are… you ready?” Hermione asked, somewhat exasperated by the sudden grip Luna held upon her arm. She held her firmly but not uncomfortably, as if she meant to escort her to a ball and not a night of possible emotional slaughter.

Luna didn’t answer, she only smiled and tugged her away from the charmed mirror she’d been idling in front of. That was her only warning before she felt the familiar and entirely unwanted sensation of twisting guts, pressure, and tearing skin. Instinctively she kept her grip upon Luna and focused only on her presence--or what she thought was her presence--but when they left the instant and sudden apparition Hermione couldn’t prevent her stumble as her body rearranged itself and demanded less balance and more… well, just more _everything._ More stability, more _warning_ , more whatever it was that made a body naturally reform after using such an atrocious method of travel without prior notification.

She might have yelled at her company had she not been busy holding in the contents of the rushed dinner they’d shoved into their bodies before purchasing their attire.

That and she refused to show any sort of weakness before the imposing gates of Malfoy Manor.

“Could you, maybe, give some warning next time? I appreciate the side-along but really, Luna, you just about made me toss out here.” Hermione sneered, unwilling to hide her expression of irritation, an expression that Luna either ignored or didn’t process.

“We’re not late,” Was her response, that and her casual smile. Hermione swore she saw a glimmer of amusement there but that seemed unlikely, Luna wasn’t the sort of find humor in another person's discomfort, surely. “Come come, let’s move to the gate. It’s a bit chilly here and I don’t want the pixies to follow us.”

“What pixies?” She hissed.

“The dark ones, pale like the moon and all. They seemed hungry and they’re waiting for you to feed them. It’s odd, though. You don’t have anything to give yet.” The words were tossed over Luna’s shoulder as the woman stepped forward, all grace and ease, across the beautifully set cobblestone path that led toward the iron wrought gates.

Refusing to hold a discussion about ‘pixies’, ‘feeding’, and what not with Luna’s back Hermione decided to cut her losses and save herself a headache by shuffling quietly behind her. The path seemed unnecessarily long and heavily decorated with towering statues of mythical creatures set to line their journey. Had this been any other place she would have thought the overall gothic-touched constructs something to marvel at. Instead, she found them imposing, creepy, and uncomfortable… Surely the eyes hadn’t just moved on that griffin and those posing cupids didn’t have their arrows aimed at her chest.

Though if there was one thing the winding pathway afforded her it was time, time to think, time to swallow her anxious energy, and time to admit she was envious of Luna’s careless stride. It was difficult to emulate, impossible even. While Luna seemed the definition of relaxation and poise Hermione felt stiff and overly aware. She knew the loud clip-clop of her heels broke the otherwise odd serenity that prevailed in the space but she felt somewhat glad for the normalcy generated by the noise. Had she been less mature she might have stomped down the path like a petulant child in hopes that her loud unneeded sounds drove other patrons away or at least ruined the atmosphere this place was so desperately trying to create.

She didn't, of course, because she would have looked silly, but she certainly thought about it.

“Hermione,” Luna spoke, her tone a peculiar emulation of fervor. That softly hissed whisper of her name was more than enough to pull her attention from a sensually posed mermaid fountain. “Come, quickly.”

With a slight shake of head, Hermione quickened her pace. It didn’t take much effort to pull up to Luna’s side, despite her effective yet still graceful stride, but that didn’t mean she was trying to approach the imposing iron-wrought gate before the manor any faster than she had to. “What is it?”

With a slow lick of her lips Luna lifted a delicate hand, the pale fingertips barely visible beyond the exaggerated length of her dress-robe’s sleeve as she pointed toward a nearby shape. “Company.”

In robes of black and lapel lined green stood a tall figure. As they drew closer that figure morphed into something more recognizable, something masculine and incredibly confident. In a manner that seemed both lazy and natural, he leaned against the open gates, one ankle crossed over the other and lips pulled into a smile so strained and tired that the expression gave the entirety of his face a mask-like appearance. It was a familiar look, the air of a person who didn’t wish to perform some asinine duty and as they drew closer it only became more apparent in the idle impatient tap of his heel against the cobblestone and the crinkled corners of hard gray eyes.

Yet, it wasn’t his body language that made Hermione slow her walk, though that was a portion of the reason. It was the gate-keeper overall, with his slicked back hair of white blond and ring sporting fingertips that pulled idly at the finery that was his black tux worn so proudly beneath his robes. He held a face that wasn’t easy to forget and a demeanor to match it, but if she hadn’t been able to recall her memories so fiercely she certainly would have known him simply from the green initialed tie worn around his neck.

It read, rather plainly, _D. M._

“Good evening,” Draco purred, his honey-coated voice meant to cover up the automaticity of his rehearsed phrase. Other circles might have found the cantor of his tone rather charming and certainly befitting of a young man of his caliber and prestige. Hermione only found the falseness of it painfully dreadful. “Welcome to the Malfoy Autumn Revel.”

Perhaps he wasn’t paying her to much attention, perhaps he found her beneath his immediate notice and memory. After all, his gaze was mostly focused on Luna, who bobbed her head to some beat nobody else could hear. Yet, despite his lack of immediate recognition of her, it was difficult to forget him. The last time she’d seen him his eyes had been filled with terror laced passion, his alabaster skin so pale the blue of various veins had been visible. Now he seemed brighter, alive with rejuvenated confidence or perhaps a sense of superiority from the victory He had ripped from The Boy. He wasn’t dampened at all by baffling displacement and that shined clearly through the boredom created haze coating his stare.  

“Hello, Mr. Malfoy. I see your recent infestation has passed. It must have been difficult to get rid of them, they cause so much noise when they’re plucked.” Luna replied.

“Yes, of course. Wait my… what now?” As if waking from a dream the glaze that made his eyes seem shiny and distant began to twist into a sharp edge. Suddenly he was standing straighter with chest puffed out and his hands upon his hips, “What nonsense are you spouting?”

“You know, the infestation--”

“--We had an infestation?”

“A nasty one.”

Hermione parted her lips in slight exasperation. The entire conversation was becoming ridiculous as Luna tried to casually explain about some sort of something that had been going on in a place she didn’t wish to actually be aware of. It was the perfect time to step from around Luna and perhaps sneak pass them both, though doing so would make herself more visible to the man who seemed entirely too focused on arguing mythical semantics with her companion.

“Look, I’m sure Mother would just love to hear all about this invisible infestation--”

“Oh, Mandrakes are very visible, Draco. It was your gardening elf that alerted me to them.”

“And you came out here and--”

“Well, _I_ didn’t come out here, not the first time.”

“You’ve been here other times?”

Had Luna been to the manor after the war? Willingly? She’d stepped foot onto this space as some sort of pest control for the benefit of these people?

“Of course, you’ve seen me.”

“I thought you only came when Mother called--”

“I have a job, Draco.”

“You aren’t a herbologist!”

Enough.

“Excuse me? It’s a bit drafty out here.” Hermione spoke, interrupting what was sure to be a full-length conversation she didn’t want to hear based on facts that were virtually useless for her. The only thing she really wanted to do was get away from the gate, away from the Malfoy attending it, and viciously drill Luna about whatever it was she was doing out here so casually. Granted, that was just her sense of curiosity, not any particularly driven loyalty to old notions of thought and kept enemies. There was no time to hold grudges or improper thoughts about the great families and their wartime actions. These _heroes_ had far too much backing for their own proper good and the last thing Hermione needed to do was drive herself crazy with idle wonderings of ‘why’.

It was much easier to remain invisible, after all.

“Is that you, Granger?” Draco exclaimed, nearly so loud she thought the entire estate could hear it.

“Yes,” Hermione hissed, “ _Ms._ Granger would have been a more polite form of greeting.”

Here Draco laughed, some soft unusual sound that Hermione wouldn’t have thought possible from a man that had been so vicious in his youth. He seemed somewhat amused at her as his face became more animated and his eyes glistened with mirth. It was unsettling, his… happiness. Was it at seeing her or knowing what she’d become? That she’d found it so easy to conform to the current reign and its leadership? He couldn’t possibly know much, her strives for ‘greatness’ were softly whispered at best and kept to St. Mungo’s at the most.

“I apologize, _Ms. Granger_ . I just didn’t expect you to come _here._ ” Now his face twisted into something more familiar, that arrogant sneer belonging to youthful inexperienced kings.

“I didn’t expect to be here either.” She answered casually, voice carefully devoid of the emotions that tumbled through her belly and made her palms itch, “Though there wasn’t much choice. The delivery of the invitation and the wording left a lot to be desired. Unusually inadequate and disappointingly inexplicable really, for someone like a Malfoy.”

Draco flared his nostrils as if insulted by the dig. Hermione took great pleasure in that.

“Ms. Granger you did have a choice,” He said, albeit slowly, as if she were just some child who couldn’t yet comprehend the subject she was discussing.

“Oh did I?” Hermione tossed Luna a look, one she no doubt laced with a budding venom and one Luna casually ignored as she smiled dreamily and looked toward the surrounding gardens. “Elaborate, Draco.”

“You had two choices, I guess.” His eyes narrowed in a mimic of delight but something flickered there, some quickly smothered thought, perhaps. Something frightened and weary. No, it couldn’t be.

“Well?”

Draco stretched out his arms and spread his hands, palms exposed to the half-moon above them. “Two choices, Granger. Come or don’t. It didn’t really say mandatory on the invitation. I know, I wrote them. It didn’t say ‘come if you want’ either. I was careful, clever even--”

Draco paused then to give Hermione another display of perfect white teeth. “And you? You were afraid.”

She said nothing to that.

“Or, maybe cautious.” Draco backtracked with a frown. Maybe he’d seen something in her she hadn’t meant to let slip. Maybe he’d seen the bitter boiling leashed fury that rolled through her chest that she’d meant to keep from reflecting in the cold calculated stare she tossed him. The idea that Draco had purposely worded the invitation in a way too vague to clearly interpret was infuriating. She was not a toy for the pure-blood elite nor an experiment under glass to be poked and prodded for a guessed reaction. 

It didn’t matter, he continued his elaboration either way.

“What I mean to say is you could have stayed away and threatened your survival if this was, in fact, a mandatory gathering of the elite. Or you could come, as you were told to.”

He placed both palms before himself though mostly in her direction, his smile back in place, his amusement rather clear. “Tell me, Granger. Which is a heavier weight to bear? The thick collar of obedience when you came to terms with your place and answered our summons or that small sense of pride you managed to keep after your precious friends disappeared?”

Her nostrils flared and her vision narrowed as a sudden onslaught of indescribable sensation swept through her veins. The nervous but steady thrum of her heart became a wild beat, one that inspired her blood to howl wildly through her limbs as the compulsion to grip her clutch-hidden wand raged within her. With pressed thin lips she took a step forward and blessedly self-preservation, or perhaps polite conditioning, kept her from aggressive action. No matter how much her fingers twitched or how she burned to feel the familiar flow of magic answer her call she would remain the perfect example of absolute control. Or rather, she hoped.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Luna whispered, but her gaze was not upon the boyishly grinning Draco, whose own stare remained leveled on Hermione’s twitching face. “The revel? I don’t wish to be late.”

Yet, Draco didn’t appear to be listening, and Hermione cared little about upholding Luna’s sense of punctuality. Instead, she gave a slow lick of her lower lip, an action that made Draco’s expression falter ever so slightly. Disappointment flickered behind the shining gray of his eyes and she latched onto it with flared nostrils and lips that twitched into a half-formed smile. She wasn’t sure what he saw in the look she held and wasn’t sure she cared. She let the wickedness of her sudden thought bleed through her gaze with enough intensity that even Luna stopped admiring the landscape to pay her mind.

“Draco,” Hermione started and without warning, she reached out to grasp his hands with her own. His resulting jerk at the suddenness of her motion was satisfying but not _enough_. Something in her was hungry, something that wanted more beyond feeling the cold chill of his grip and seeing the bob of his throat as he swallowed, unnerved by the softened quality of her tone and the fire that swam to the surface of her gaze.

“I understand what you’re trying to convey. Completely. Utterly. Oh, yes I certainly do.” Her smile widened, revealing perfect teeth of pearly white but he didn’t return it. If anything, the harsh downturn of his frown seemed all he was capable of. “Yet, I’m not the only one with _choices._ ”

She inhaled deeply but it did nothing to cool the heat that prickled across her skin, fanned by Draco’s absolute arrogance and her sudden all-consuming desire to _devour_ him. Such an odd need this was, so abrupt and unrecognizable that she could barely comprehend the raw excitement of it. It rode her with a strength she hadn’t anticipated, released from the cage of detached existence she’d been forced to dwell in for the last six years. It wasn’t _enough_ but it was something.

“I’ll wear this collar, proudly if I must. That’s what it means to survive, isn’t it? To thrive in this sort of place? But I must admit, I think yours is a bit tighter.”

Without warning she released one of his hands to reclaim her own, only to smack it harshly upon the arm of the one that remained in her possession. He winced but his gaze didn’t leave her own. Unfortunately for him his glare, only able to reflect a shadow of his earlier bravado, now filled with a budding discomfort. Good. Very good.

“Is it still there? His mark? Oh, it must be. Don’t think that just because it’s not around your neck, _our_ necks, that nobody can see it. If He wants to He’ll call you, won’t He? If He asked, you’d bark.”

His sneer was vicious but not nearly enough to frighten her. She answered it with soft laughter instead and found his irritation only fuel for the fire that swept through her. She was _alive_ out there in that breezy autumn evening, even if the circumstances were undesirable.

"And then," She leaned closer, tugging him toward her when he tried to prevent an invasion of his personal space, " _You'll_ have a choice, but we all know what you'll choose, don't we? You aren't any different, when it comes to _Him,_ none of you are. At least my leash is loose."

With a warning squeeze to the arm she’d captured she let him go entirely. “Mr. Malfoy, it’s a pleasure to be reacquainted with you after the unfortunate happenings that took place during the war. However, I must once again remind you that it’s a bit chilly out this evening and my companion and I cannot afford to dally.”

With a gentle titter, Luna gave a nod of her head, surprised but seemingly pleased by Hermione's actions. “Ah, she’s right. I don’t want the pixies to find us out here.”

Hermione gave a soft snort, “Not this again.”

“Hm, you should take this a bit seriously. They really are drawn to you for some reason--”

“Ladies,” Draco growled, with a strained smile and distant gaze. He was staring at something beyond their shoulders, perhaps another recently arrived gaggle of wizards. “I’ll escort you to the revel, I must insist, especially after my earlier rudeness… Ms. Granger.”

Hermione quirked a brow as Draco extended an arm for her first before doing the same toward Luna.

“Oh?” She sighed.

“Please.” He ground out, his face scrunched up like spitting out the word had caused him undue pain.

“What a gentleman,” Luna said with wistful air and little hesitation. It wasn’t long before Hermione was the only figure not ready to cross past the gate, as Luna took Draco’s arm and then leaned against him with a disturbing amount of familiarity.

With a sound of displeasure she did nothing to hide she took the offered arm and grasped it lightly with the very edge of her fingertips. “Go ahead then, Mr. Malfoy.”

With a stiff posture, he moved them away from the gates and toward the massive mansion in the distance. “Mother will want to see you tonight.”

She didn’t remove her gaze from the looming structure, “Why is that?”

“You’ll see, I suppose. I'm sure it can't be anything but good news.” He hummed being rather cordial despite their earlier altercation and the tension that just about shook his offered arm. It was an act that was probably about as unnerving as her brief uncanny behavior, now that the high of her anger was fading, leaving but a dull pulse of sensation to tingle through her limbs.

At the looming entrance, he let them go.

“Inside you’ll find an attendant to take your robes.” He bowed briefly, but it was stiff and practiced, “Ladies…”

Then he turned to leave and no doubt reassume his lowly greeting duties as heir to the house.

“Well then,” Luna said, breaking the heavy silence that overcame the space now that they stood before the slightly opened doorway. Hermione could hear the distant sounds of laughter and clinking glass. It did little to settle her nerves but one thing was certain…

Draco was right, she'd had a choice and she'd picked to obey. The only thing she could do was adjust and decorate her metaphorical collar.

“Let’s go.”


	5. the pre-show

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, thanks everyone for all the comments and kudos they are very encouraging!

“The name is Flemming.”

Hermione gave a jerk as Luna’s voice filtered in from the front of the entrance hall, “Excuse me?”

“Flemming,” Luna repeated, “That’s the name of the house elf that took our robes. Don’t forget or we won’t see them again.”

For a moment Hermione merely stood in place, staring toward her companion with one hand clutching the other as she prepared to move past the impressive foyer and toward the bubbling sounds of laughter and idle conversation. Luna’s blanket statement just seemed to normal compared to Hermione’s own backdrop of wild emotion, so much so that she nearly forgot where they were and what they had come to experience. 

“I’m sorry,” Hermione took a deep breath, “Flemming? How do you know his name is Flemming?”

“Her name,” Luna corrected, “And that’s because I asked.”

“Yes. Of course you did.” Hermione sighed. She hadn’t thought to ask. Hadn’t thought to speak to her at all really, considering the overall disposition of the household and the culture a house elf often absorbed depending on the environment. Once upon a time, the elves here would have thought her little more than some unintelligent animal trying to free them of their preciously hoarded servitude. She hadn’t expected that to change. Furthermore, despite her once adamant feelings on elf-based slavery such rebellious desires to cater to their freedom and care had died years ago. They were just fixtures now as far as she was concerned. Reminders of one more failure among many and the strength of unbroken tradition. Their place in society had been solidified with the destruction of The Order and even she had given in to more pure-blooded ideals about servitude surrounding elf-kind.

She didn’t even flinch anymore when she called them to attend her errands in St. Mungo’s so it never crossed her mind that Luna might strike up some brief conversation with the one that had taken their outer robes.

“Are you okay?” Luna mumbled, her dreamy gaze the perfect picture of practiced concern.

“No,” Hermione answered honestly, lifting one bare shoulder in a careless shrug.

“Soon then, perhaps.” Luna answered with idle fascination, as if Hermione’s feelings of anxiety were some great performance. It was maddening, in a way, how much older Luna seemed compared to her. Maybe it was in her vague statements or the idle twist of thought that shifted beyond the silvery grey of her eyes.

Or maybe Hermione was succumbing to madness herself which made Luna seem like a beacon of clarity in comparison. 

Effortlessly Luna stepped up to her side and with only a slight smile she took possession of her arm. “Come come! I want to see who’s here.”

“Whatever for?” Hermione mumbled though she didn’t resist when Luna tugged her along down the hall and past the dreary doe-eyed elf that had taken their robes with a sneer that seemed perfectly pure-blood emulated.

She didn’t  _ belong _ here.

No, no. Some part of her… some part of her did.

She could feel it when she entered the space, feel that quiet tired portion of her soul awaken as phantom memories wrapped her up in nearly tangible sensations and invasive intimate sounds--heavy panting, sweat, heat, and pain  _ oh Merlin _ so much delirious pain. A strange uncomfortable warmth speared her belly before it twisted into something cold and bitter. Though, all to soon it settled into the usual familiar numb. Yes, some part of her did belong here, some portion of innocence and dignity that had been stolen and filed away within the massive and heavily decorated manor. It returned to her now, welcomed her with idle thoughts she hadn’t wished to revisit. Curiosity stirred her thudding heart and slight trepidation made her furrow her brow. Was  _ she _ here? The woman that had haunted her every waking moment only a few years ago? The woman that had made it nearly impossible to feel anything other than that budding emptiness that had made it so easy to move on and yet so terribly difficult at the same time?  


Did it matter if she was? Did it matter if she wasn’t?   


“I don’t…” She whispered, wanting Luna to know that she just wasn’t sure if she had the courage to continue. That odd stirring in her belly hadn’t completely died. It dug in, fighting against the chill created by her ever present emptiness. It wasn’t nausea, like she’d expected, but something else, something...untoward. She was excited, excited to… _experience_ this moment. It was the only conclusion she could draw from her companion starved spirit. Why else did her fingertips twitch and her breath catch?  


Luna only gave a soft titter and increased the strength of her hold. The lock of her arm wrapped within Luna’s own--the arm, she idly noted, with the hidden scar that would never fade--was strangely powerful. It was tight enough to feel slightly uncomfortable and more than enough to draw her attention. What did Luna take her for, some frightened rabbit in need of restraint?

Ah, wait. That seemed more correct than not. 

“No worries, Hermione. You’ll be fine. It’s okay, to embrace it.”

To embrace what, exactly?

With wild eyes she looked at her friend but found nothing out of the ordinary, nothing to say that she  _ knew  _ anything about the odd peculiarities that lay dormant in her mind. About the mental struggle she’d nearly succumb to those six years ago and all the memories she held prior to that. She couldn’t possibly know. Not about the dreams. Not about the longing… She had killed such frivolous portions of her being long ago to generate a perfect unfeeling societal autonomy in the face of false smiles and pity filled stares. Just because they were currently being stirred due to the origin of their birth meant nothing.

The itchy tight crawl of her scarred skin meant  _ nothing. _

Soft light danced across her features and she winced as they entered the revel proper. Lanterns flickered above them, floating majestically between magically held up banners of green and black. The entire space she occupied was decorated in similar taste, with plush inviting chairs lining the walls in grays and various shades of green to match the enchanted ceiling. It all looked very very Slytherin in nature, which made sense. If it was a celebration planned by this household in His name than such colors were natural to have in the space. Even the floor was a reflection of deep black, like perfected marble obsidian that easily absorbed her shadow and made her feel… weightless.

Or maybe that was the ceiling, since past the floating banners and lanterns twisted the beautiful darkened sky, with only the barest flicker above to count as the stars. It was unnatural, clearly enchanted and not at all like the stars Hermione had become painfully familiar with during her tenure as an Undesirable. Yet, there was something soothing about it all the same. Which was odd, she hadn’t expected to feel anything, let alone soothed, in a place like this.

“Ah, Draco’s back.” Luna commented casually, though they made no move toward the Malfoy that swept past the opened hallway and toward a nearby cluster of gabbing wizards. He looked awkward beside them in his smart suit since they were all older and much bigger in comparison. 

“A shame, that.” Hermione turned away feeling no need to devote anymore attention to him, lest he have her kicked out for staring or something equally preposterous. No matter how polite he seemed as he walked them to the manor she wouldn’t forget his earlier words anytime soon.

“We simply must speak to him again later, I’m sure he’ll be by to apologize.”

Hermione cast Luna a withering look but smiled slightly nonetheless. “You think so? What an adorable thought.”

For a moment Luna’s casual look of content faltered and that was enough to make Hermione’s smile slip.

“Luna? Ah… I’m sorry, I’ve been a git all night, I didn’t mean--”

Luna cast her a look, one strong enough to strangle her words. The rest of her sentence died in a soft huff of breath as Luna quirked a brow, but it wasn’t her serious expression that had made her falter. It was her eyes, the depths of them, the unspoken knowledge and smothered frightening intensity there that she had only glimpsed the day before.

“Luna--” Hermione murmured.

“They’re coming.”

“Say what now?” Hermione squeaked, but she wasn’t given any more time. Two figures were approaching them, one with a broad genuine grin and the other with a smirk that seemed far to predatory to be friendly. 

Luna’s smile returned, splitting her lips until she practically glowed with mirth but there was something awfully hunter like about it all the same. 

“Well well, if it isn’t Ms. Brown and Ms. Parkinson.” Luna greeted with a bubbling voice that just screamed familiarity. Hermione wasn’t sure if it was false or sincere though, she was much too busy carefully controlling her expression. 

“Lavender…” Hermione croaked, though soon cleared her throat thereafter as the pair joined them, “Pansy.”

She hadn’t expected… this. Hell, she hadn’t expected even Lavender to be alive let alone at the largest pure-blood event of the year. There was little she could do to keep the blood from draining out of her cheeks but thankfully Luna’s possessive hold upon her arm was enough to cover the slight tremble that had started up in her limbs. Yes, of course she was to be subjected to this. Here, she would see the ghosts of her past, alive, thriving, and smiling. Society constantly moved on, didn’t it? While she’d been secluded those first few torturous months (or were they years?) surely others--those with pure-blood--had not. 

“I’m surprised to see you, Granger.” Pansy commented, her tone somewhat jovial despite her smirk still in place. She held herself with unwarranted superiority, something that she wore rather well compared to her clumsy bully-like antics in Hogwarts."I was not aware we were inviting… your kind this year.”

Luna’s lips pressed into a thin smile and Lavender had the grace to look somewhat uncomfortable but Hermione flashed her best smile--her mask perfectly in place, her emotions mercifully calmed. “On the other hand I am not surprised to see you here, Pansy. Please, call me Hermione. Our days of house-based rivalry are over after all and now, well, we all have our place.”

There was no need for such childish antics now that the political roadmap had been laid down toward shaky equality. Granted, He could take it away if he wanted.

“Ah,” Some of the wind left Pansy’s sails but not entirely, “And what is it then, your place?”

Hermione gave an innocent tilt of head and pretended not to notice the heavy double meaning that sentence carried. “At St. Mungo’s, doing work for His benefit, keeping His people healed and healthy.”

She privately enjoyed Pansy’s confused squint and Luna’s proud nod.

“What of you?”

Pansy was quick to answer, so quick she almost tripped over her own words. Hermione found it funny how her tongue flopped in her mouth for a bit, “I’m an Auror! It’s said I may join His most esteemed guard someday. Rather soon, if the whispers are to be believed.”

“Oh really?” Hermione answered, feigning interest, noticing how Pansy seemed to glow under her false curiosity. "His... esteemed guard?"  


“Why, yes!” She gave a sweep of her arm before she placed it upon a tilted hip. She looked perfectly at home now that she was talking about herself, a look that only accentuated the gleam and sparkle of her expensive looking green dress. “Like a prodigy. I’m pretty talented and doing my family name a great bit of good.”

“Pansy,” Lavender sighed as she rubbed her palms sheepishly against the cloth of her purple dress.

Pansy continued, “I’m personally invited here every year, you know. Mum’s pretty happy about it. Still, there’s a lot of pressure. I can’t imagine you being able to understand how that feels though. St. Mungo’s must be a very… easy relaxing job in comparison.”

Easy? Not quite. Tedious, yes at times, but her private projects kept the role far from being incredibly mundane. It was the rest of her life that was droll and without challenge. Easy, how laughable.

“And what of you? Are your muggle parents proud?”

Hermione sucked in a soft breath but her expression did not change. She wasn’t sure of Pansy knew, if Lavender knew… 

“I don’t have parents, Pansy.” She answered with tilted head, voice completely devoid of the ‘friendly’ emotion she was trying to manage. All she could feel was that great cold, that endless sea of emptiness, and even the unwanted warmth and anxiety from before seemed distant and impossible to fathom. “I had to use a memory charm on them during the war. The Dark Lord and His followers would have killed them otherwise, or so I was told.”

Hermione blinked slowly after her admission and Pansy looked slightly taken aback by the blunt reality of her answer. “Still, I’m sure that, if they were aware of me, they would be proud, maybe, that I survived. A lot of the students did not.”

Lavender cringed and rubbed her hands back and forth across her arms as Hermione turned that blank gaze to her. “What of you then? What great efforts do you have to tell me? I thought you were dead, you know. I saw it, your body, after Grey--”

“Hermione,” Luna’s tone was gentle and it tugged at her consciousness like a lure. Almost instinctively she turned her gaze to her companion, whose brow was pinched in slight interest over a mask of worry.

“It’s fine, Luna.” Lavender answered, perhaps mistaking Luna’s concern for Hermione’s slipping state as her own. “Hermione, I… the war had us all sort of… well, wrapped in madness didn’t it?”

Lavender laughed nervously while Pansy swallowed, “It was scary. I think some part of me did die there.”

Here Pansy interjected, blurting out her words as if rejoining the conversation abruptly was the perfect way to recover their attention, “The pure part.”

Lavender hissed, “Pansy.”

“The pure part?” Hermione asked, her tone still carefully blank but she already knew what Lavender seemed hesitant to say.

“It doesn’t matter. Our Lord doesn’t care about such trivialities, only use. He saved me, gave me purpose. I’m an Auror too, Hermione. Though still in training. In fact, we both are.. in training, that is.”

Finally Hermione smiled, mostly at the irritated look Pansy tossed her fellow Auror. Pansy must have caught it though since she was quick to take control of the conversation thereafter.   
“I’m sorry for the loss of your parents.” Pansy coughed awkwardly with head held high and arrogance back in place. “I’m sure your work at St. Mungo’s and your… recovery after the war would have made them proud.”

For a moment Hermione considered twisting her lips up into a sneer--she did not need Pansy's pity, she was not that starved for pure-blood focus--instead she merely nodded. “Thank you, Pansy.”

Luna smiled brilliantly once more, “Are you excited for the announcement, Pansy?”

Immediately Pansy latched onto the subject but her babbling was inconsequential and easy enough to tune out. Instead, Hermione turned her attention to the slightly squirming Lavender, who seemed out of place besides the woman who crowed about nothing.

“Did He, really? Save you, that is.”

Lavender gave a hard swallow and nodded.

“Why?”

“For the benefit of the future, so He said. I owe Him a bit.”

Hermione noticed Lavender didn’t look uncomfortable with the admittance, though she suspected six years in service to The Dark Lord would do that to a person.

“And how is it, your…”

“I’m infected, enough to feel odd but not to turn furry.” Lavender was quick to respond and her tone terse. 

“I would never judge you.” Hermione whispered solemnly.

“I… I know,” Lavender said, though her brow was furrowed and her expression strained. Hermione wouldn’t say they had been particularly close in their youth. They had shared rooming quarters and perhaps, once upon a time, a particular ginger haired boy and a scathing rivalry but beyond that not much else. Once upon a time, in the shadow of her memories, they had been on the same team though and that had to count for something even if it meant nothing now.

“I know you helped me too, back when Greyback came.” Yet, Lavender didn’t elaborate beyond that. She was too busy watching Pansy subconsciously give them her back as she flailed her arms in a mimic of majesty for Luna’s benefit.

To Luna’s credit she managed to look more interested than downright amused.

“Did you know? That I was alive?” Hermione whispered.  


“No. Not really. We weren’t told much that first year. I served a sentence, a short one, there was a lot I needed to learn.”

For a moment they were both quiet. Maybe, Lavender was waiting... waiting for Hermione to admit how long she'd been kept, how many days she'd spent in the walls of His Azkaban listening to the howling screams and the wails of hopelessness as people readily gave up their allies and their souls for relief from budding madness. Yet, she added nothing more to the subject. She had forgotten, in her struggles, such simple facts. It couldn't have been long, surely, yet the days had bled into weeks and weeks into the twisting spiral of desperation, loneliness, confusion...

So many hours spent, so much time _thinking_ , wondering about The Boy, about her Ronald, about _so much._

She gave off a soft sigh then and a blink as the fog of splintered memories lifted. It was just in time to see Lavender give a nervous glance around the room before she continued, “Greyback came, um, for me. He gave… um.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose, “Spit it out.”

“The pack, the pack was rewarded. They’d done a lot of work for Him.” Lavender’s discomfort seemed to increase as she toyed with a strand of curly hair. “They’re in the Ministry, the lot of them, for their great deeds. That’s how I got in, He told them to make me useful. He’s not horrible, The Dark Lord. Ah, neither is Greyback. At least, now that’s he’s treated better.”

Hermione sniffed slightly as she tried to process Lavender’s story. It was mostly stuttered and certainly a tad sloppy. “Relax, it’s only me. Hermione, not some inquisitor.”

Lavender licked her dry lips, “They have one at the Ministry now, an Inquisitor. Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself.”

Slowly Hermione lifted a hand and used it to gently brush a strand of Lavender’s curly hair from her face, “So you’re...  okay then?”

“Very,” Lavender replied and as if the subject of the war and her life was never brought up she straightened her posture and smiled, “My partner-in-training is Pansy. She’s not all bad, even if she is a Slytherin. She can be rather nice, once you get past the... um.”

“Spikes?” Hermione offered.

To this Lavender laughed, “Yes, the spikes.”

Unable to repress a smile Hermione scoffed. Here she was, in the middle of a Malfoy revel, and actually smiling at the surrealism of her future. This was not how she’d envisioned her night going. Even the shock over Lavender’s escape from death seemed unusual and out of place. Not when there was so much laughter, joy, and--

“Ms. Brown,” A masculine voice called from the collection that Draco had once been a part of. Now the Malfoy  was standing at the side of an impossibly tall figure, with a short portly poorly dressed woman sandwiched between them.

“Oh Merlin,” Hermione grunted, stepping away as inconspicuously as she could once the trio began their approach. 

Instantly Luna was at her side, dreamy and cordial expression back in place while Pansy turned with a flourish to greet the wizards moving in their direction.

“Excuse me,” Hermione mumbled, trying to politely disengage from the group once their attention was devoted elsewhere but Luna was once more glued to her side and seemed less than eager to let her wander.

“Please, stay Ms… Granger, is it?”

With tired eyes she peered at the man who had addressed her. She remembered his face, it was difficult to forget--for wasn't it this very face that had twisted in glee when her sentence had been delivered?--and often displayed in all it’s haughty glory in the Daily Prophet. He moved the way his portrait did, slow and methodical, while he stroked his perfectly groomed beard.

“Yes, Minister Thicknesse,” Hermione replied, polite and indifferent, “Hermione Granger.”

“A difficult name to forget, all things considered. I apologize for the slip of mind.” His voice was like liquid honey, all sweet and meant to allure, but there was something particularly poisonous about it. He was all smiles and slippery tongue but no sincerity. It was different from Pansy, who had at least been truthful in her desire for conflict. He was the type of fellow to hide his barbed comments behind a sugary tone, but what could one expect from a man that had willingly joined His side after the Order’s defeat, all to eager to please and submit.

Yet it was the woman in his company that made her skin crawl.

“Really, Pius?  You must be toying with her. One doesn’t forget the name of a.. woman such as Ms. Granger.”

Hermione tossed the speaker a thin-lipped smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes as she tried to look past all the sickening frills and pink clothing the short stocky official had on.

“Yes, she did perform admirably on her N. E. W. T. s didn’t she, Dolores?” 

Dolores gave her a smile that split her face and seemed far too focused, “I’d say she did. It was unbelievably well, for a Muggle-born.”

Ah, there it was.

“The Dark Lord encouraged all students who were swept away in the madness of The Boy to take their exams post-haste upon their release. It was difficult for Hermione to move on, she’d been through a lot, and yet her grades were still very outstanding.” Luna interjected with hands linked playfully before her and a closed-lipped smile on her face.

“Oh?” Dolores shifted slightly, as if just now noticing Luna’s presence, “Our Lord is a very kind and generous individual. Why, even her existence is a mercy.”

Pius gave a snort but it was Draco who spoke next--”Our Lord has stated time and time again that our Muggle-born brethren are an important asset to society. They are understanding the importance of tradition, family, and hierarchy. It’s easy enough to teach. Even a Muggle-born can understand the needs of our Lord and the importance of power.”

With a wrinkled nose Hermione kept quiet as they talked about her around her and Draco, for what it was worth, held a carefully neutral expression while Pansy moved to stand beside him with wide eager eyes. Only Lavender and Luna hovered near her, though Lavender seemed just as uncomfortable as Hermione felt.

“I know that, boy.” Dolores hissed, her attention now fully upon Draco who looked as if he’d eaten something sour, “Don’t think to lecture me. It wasn’t your department that got liquidated--”

“Do you find little joy in your current position?” Pius interjected, “As my assistant you are rather close to the action. It’s better than making pamphlets all day, isn’t it?”

She took a deep breath, “Of course, Pius, of course. I am merely stating that Ms. Granger has performed curiously well, well enough to have joined the Ministry in fact, but made no bother to do so. Now, look at us here, all together. I can’t be the only one wondering…?”

“I just studied a lot.” Hermione blurted, curt and irritated. “You aren’t still touting that nonsense about magic and stealing, are you?”

Her mouth opened and closed for a bit and her face flushed red as Draco stifled a grunt.

“If such a thing were true we wouldn’t have squibs. Or, perhaps I’m just an incredibly lucky Muggle-born.” Or an incredibly stupid one, she left unsaid.

“And what do you do now, Ms. Granger?” 

She wasn’t sure if she should be thankful for Prius question, for it ended a debate Hermione wasn’t ready to dive into, or annoyed with it for her answer would only reveal her meager status among pure-blood giants. 

“I’m a potioneer at St. Mungo’s.” She answered carefully, combing the crowd for their reaction, “It’s humble work but when the stocks are full His people are healthy.”

Prius nodded, satisfied with her answer while Dolores managed to recover her damaged expression. 

“I suppose it’s a fitting job for someone like you, Ms. Granger.” Dolores huffed, “You were always the helpful type.”

“I suppose.” 

“Draco,” Pansy interrupted, “Shall we?”

For a moment he merely stared at her, his face still an open door to his irritation but something went off behind his eyes, some shimmer of light as whatever he was thinking just  _ clicked _ into place. “Oh yes, of course.”

He turned to Lavender and gestured briefly, “We need to prepare. He should be here soon.”

Hermione grimaced and took a deep breath, “It’s true then, He really comes to these type of things?”

He was more like a myth to her, some boogeyman used to frighten them all into submission. Despite knowing how the night would go some part of her still hadn’t really believed that The Dark Lord would take the time to walk among His loyal subjects. Maybe His Death Eaters sure, since they were still a very well and functional portion of His regime but not the general collection.

Then again, here she was, holding a conversation with Umbridge of all people, so it seemed like a night for the mythical and unusual.

“Of course our Lord really comes, “Draco stated as-matter-of-fact. “Every year He delivers His statement of change and what not.”

“Sometimes everyday,” Luna casually added, though Draco sneered in her direction.

“Not everyday. Hush up, looney girl.”

Dolores spared her one more look before turning to Pius. “Come along then, if He’s to be here soon I’d like a proper seat.”

Pius gave a soft sigh before bowing deeply to Hermione and Luna, an action that seemed to vex Dolores if her puffed out cheeks were anything to go by. “Then I must bid you farewell, Ms. Granger. Please, if you find your role at St. Mungo’s to be… lacking, there is plenty of challenge and fulfillment in Ministry work.”

The invitation shocked her. It must have shocked Dolores too, since she was staring at Prius like he’d grown an extra head.

“What is it, woman?” He hissed, but he was already brushing past her, “Close your mouth and go find Yaxley. Make sure you don’t embarrass me this year, would you?” 

With a sneer that came off as a crooked smile Dolores twisted on her heels and hobbled off, melting back into the crowd with all the ease of a loud traversing elephant. By the time Hermione’s eyes tried to find Pius, to question is words, he was also gone.

“I hope she doesn’t get to blabbering again about nonsense. His patience is running thin.” Draco mumbled.

“I don’t like that woman,” Pansy added and Hermione had to begrudgingly admit she was surprised by Pansy’s admittance, “To many tricks and schemes when she has no power.”

How ironic.

Still, Hermione held her tongue, especially when Lavender lifted a hand to place against Pansy’s shoulder. “Let’s go.”

With a nod Draco turned to leave, followed closely by the pair of women--though Pansy stopped briefly to flash Hermione a smirk over her shoulder before she too melted into the crowd.

“I’m going crazy,” Hermione mumbled, “Absolutely bonkers.”

“It’s only shock. I know madness when I see it, you aren’t there just yet.”

“How ominous,” Hermione frowned, “I don’t know if I want to hear that from you.”

“You wouldn’t be the first person to say that.”

An odd amount of tension was weaving through the crowd and a slight hush had begun to fall. With a weary sigh Hermione allowed herself to be dragged across the floor and through the sea of silk skirts and well-pressed suits.

“I have someone saving us a lovely spot. You’ll be able to see rather well.”

She didn’t have the will or care to question Luna and instead allowed herself to be positioned right besides a very familiar body. 

“Sorry we’re late, Professor. We were having a wonder conversation--”

“Professor?!” Hermione hissed, causing a few heads to turn in her direction, heads she ignored as she stared with wide unblinking eyes toward the casually dressed Hogwart’s lioness.

“Ms. Granger, don’t you think it’s a bit unladylike to raise your voice like that?”

Professor McGonagall hadn’t changed at all in the six years since Hermione had seen her. Only her eyes seemed different. They carried the same weight that her own did turning a brilliant dazzling green into a weary dark forest. Still, she smiled--even if it was a tired and sad one--and Hermione felt something in her crack at the expression. Of all the people she had thought slain and gone it had been her professor. How this member of the Order remained without being flayed alive Hermione didn’t know but she found that she barely cared.

“I just… I didn’t think you were--”

“Ah, you have a lot of questions.” McGonagall interrupted, but she didn’t seem annoyed by Hermione’s sudden outburst. If anything there swam a familiar flicker of amusement in the depths of those eyes but it was gone just as quickly as it came. “I don’t have a lot of answers this time.”

“This time?” Hermione babbled, her focus glued upon the woman that had been her inspiration so many years ago even as the floating lanterns dimmed and Luna put a calming hand against the flesh of her bare arm. 

“Ms. Granger, for some time I was incapable of seeing you. The Dark Lord and His Death Eaters watch Hogwarts closely and myself even more so. I was to focus on my duties to the new regime as it were and I felt as if….”

McGonagall went very quiet, her gaze narrowed toward the main entrance as several toddling house elf bounced into the space with flutes of bubbling liquid. She didn’t need to finish her statement anyway, Hermione knew what she’d say.

“After the war there wasn’t a point was there? We needed to move on.”

I needed to move on.

“There is always a point to everything, Ms. Granger. Finding that point is the difficult part. No, no it wasn’t the right time. Things were happening, they are still happening, and I--”

Again she froze, mostly due to the elf that brought them their flutes, which she picked up gingerly while Hermione and Luna grasped their own.

“It doesn’t matter. Just be… aware. He is ruling Great Britain in a way that goes against Albus predictions, the old fool. He didn’t prepare any of us for this.”

He? Dumbledore or The Dark Lord?

“Professor--”

“Listen, Hermione.” McGonagall interrupted as she tapped one finger impatiently against the lip of her glass. “I believe we have a mystery on our hands, one that will become more clear as time goes on. Our world of black and white has been gray for sometime now but gray doesn’t equal peace, not easily. I can’t really explain what I want to, not yet, but my duty is always first and foremost to my students.  _ All of them. _ ”

Then, with a quick sip of the flute she waved a hand casually toward a robed figure that was strutting toward the center of the room like he owned the place with only a soft whisper, nearly swallowed by the anxious circling crowd.  


"I never forgot about you."

Then the lights went dark.


	6. the living show

In the center of the room stood one figure brightly illuminated by a floating and glowing round plump creature which, Luna found cause to remind Hermione, were difficult to cultivate, train, and capture. It was a statement she mostly ignored as she looked over the person that made up Lucius Malfoy. After the dramatic--and if Hermione was honest, quite startling-- cut off of the lights the creature had become the only source of visibility set in a hover about the crass and arrogantly face male with his hair slicked back and pony-tailed in a fashion she’d never seen him depart from. He was an overconfident ring-leader in the middle of barely illuminated faces with a puffed out chest and mild smirk. Hermione supposed that she would have felt incredibly confident too if her side had won the war and plunged her family into ludicrous amounts of prestige and luxury. From the top of his perfectly permed head down to the scuff-less shoes on his feet, everything about him screeched controlled aristocracy. He was instantly recognizable. Not because of Hermione’s run-ins with him in the past, though there was that too, but mostly due to the fact he was similarly dressed like his son.

They both wore power rather well.

It didn’t matter how many years had passed or how many speeches he gave on progression and change, this man remained the same. Hermione could practically feel superiority ooze from him from her position, nestled carefully between Luna and her favorite former professor. They both wore unreadable expressions--or in Luna’s case, one of absolute boredom--but seemed attentive. She took that as a hint that she should also focus. After all, this was probably a once in a lifetime sort of deal and no matter how much she preferred to be back home in her lonely flat where everything was structured, safe, and predictable there was some part of her that had grown to crave the knowledge of such a… preposterous pure-blood tradition.

“Welcome, wizards and witches. I do hope you’re enjoying the festivities?” He spoke, commanding the attention of the gathering with little effort as if he were the Lord himself.

“Naturally!” Came a feminine tone from the back followed quickly by polite and controlled laughter.

“I see the some have been enjoying the wine.”

This time, there was more laughter, genuine even,  though Hermione kept her lips pressed shut and her company didn’t so much as let loose a  giggle.

“Yet, the time for idle pleasantries are over. Now is the time for business, my friends, and I must ask that you create the proper form for our Lord.”

The people shuffled sluggishly as if reluctant to lose their spots. Hermione didn’t move, Luna’s firm hand on her shoulder kept her still, but the outside of the crowd ring parted like the sea when Lucius, perhaps impatiently, gave a flick of his fleshly revealed wand.

“Come come now, leave plenty of room for your neighbor. All will see our gracious Lord.” He purred, though even he seemed somewhat rehearsed in his words. Hermione supposed it was due to the fact that every year they did this exhausting event. If so, every year these wizards should be prepared to create this awkwardly opened circle.

“Some will see better than others,” McGonagall mumbled, her words nearly absorbed by the slight ambiance that kicked up as booted feet shuffled and glassware clinked.

Hermione found that an odd thing to say but didn’t have the time to question her, Lucius was talking again.

“Perfect,” He started, tossing a squint across the shadowed faces of the crowd. For a moment Hermione held her breath as tension threaded through her muscles. Could he see her in the darkness?

His gaze came and went lingering no longer on her section than it did on any others. “Now, please prepare yourselves for His arrival. While our Lord needs no introduction I find it is my utmost duty to remind everyone that He is the reason we are--”

A loud **POP** went off beyond them, strong and sudden enough to cause several guests to flinch and cry out. It was certainly enough to make Hermione grimace, but her company didn’t so much as gasp, oddly calm in the face of unpredictability. Black smoke billowed into the space, swirling visibly throughout the crowd like sentient tendrils. They crawled across the floor leaving a deadened chill behind them and Hermione gasped and jerked into Luna when she felt a tendril--why was it so tangible? So _physical?_ \--brush gently across an exposed ankle leaving an icy numbing sensation in its wake. The billowing darkness was highlighted oddly by the creature, whose light buzzed brightly in response to the coiling shadows but the bulk that rumbled across the floor between herself and the guests was not the only oddity inhabiting the space.

No, for all around them clouds of dark were illuminated by the living light, those plums setting up in various spots among the crowd only to shift and change in the blink of an eye as they became humanoid shapes. _People,_ the floating clouds of smoke were people. Well dressed men easily filling in the holes among the crowd and laughing joviality at the frightened sounds of those they surprised. Despite the lack of true lighting Hermione knew, she _knew_ that these late arrivals were His.

His Death Eaters.

And while the billowing black cluster that had collected on the floor writhed and merged directly behind a cringing Lucius two oddities filtered in among the other arrivals. One streaming cloud of black that shot toward the winding staircase and into the darkness there and one pale gray smog that seemed out of place as it touched down beside the self-appointed master of ceremonies himself.

Instantly it twisted from incorporeal to something more physical, melting or… freezing into the perfect figure of femininity. Blond hair with dark highlights, a carefully closed expression, and chilling eyes of blue were the first things illuminated by the creature that remained hovering beside Lucius. Though Hermione could tell that the woman was just as well-dressed, if not more so, than her husband. She wore her form-fitting dress of silver and green as if it had been born a part of her person and despite the moderate amount of jewelry that accentuated her neck and wrists she shined like royalty. It was as if she’d always been there, a constant vigilant fixture beside her husband whose expression was just as empty and patient as her own.

Then, as one, they stepped apart and to opposite sides of the rolling darkness which had finally stopped it’s writhing to take on a more becoming shape.

The mild laughter and sniggers of the new arrivals stopped, cut off so abruptly that Hermione momentarily feared for her hearing. The silence was deafening, created by held breath and stiff figures that waited patiently for the quick manifestation of the guest of absolute honor. When the darkness finished those nasty tendrils of ice simply vanished leaving behind a man in flowing cloak of black with green decorative highlights. Yet, there was no suit, no dress-shoes of impeccable taste as far as Hermione could see. No, it was simply the male in the robe and the undeniably loud rumble of his chest as a sound of curiosity rang forth beneath a raised hood.

It was so undeniably _Him._

“That’s enough, Lucius.” He spoke, His voice so sinuous in tone and manner, so unforgettable.

How long had it been since Hermione had last heard Him? Since she’d felt the cold dreadful sensation of hopelessness fill her gut so completely? When was the last time her heart had thumped so heavily? When her lungs hadn’t been able to get enough air? The memories were there, buried beneath a mountain of paranoia and shaky thought, but not unreachable. She’d never forget the feeling of hard gravel as it dug into her bruised knees nor the thick scent of smoke and burned flesh as it nestled in her chest while His voice rung over them all, commanding their surrender and announcing The Boy’s defeat.

But there had been no corpse to prove--

“My Lord,” Lucius bowed deeply, so deeply that it might have been better for him to take a knee. Still, his submission was gracefully executed. “Welcome to my household.”

Silence kept command of their space and Hermione feared the rapid beat of her heart was far too loud.

“As always, Lucius, I am pleased and humbled by your acceptance of my presence.” His tone was peculiar, a careful curl of tongue with lingering interest but the spark of humanity He expressed was gone just as quickly as it came. “Our traditions are important to uphold, after all.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius was quick to reply as he rose from his bow and reached with one gloved hand for the grip for his wife. Narcissa had her gaze upon The Dark Lord however, and it took her some time to reach out and return Lucius grasp and even longer for her to join his side as he tugged her close.

To the unsuspecting eye, this might have seemed natural, intended even, but she was not certain that everyone was happy with the fanfare that surrounded them.

She brushed the thought away, turned off by the absurdity of the idea. Narcissa was a master socialite, to host His presence must have been a grand feat but the boost to the Malfoy name surely outweighed the stress of throwing a near literal ball.

With Narcissa at his side Lucius stepped backwards though not enough for himself and his wife to melt into the crowd just enough to provide unhindered vision of Voldemort. “My Lord, we have gathered today to hear your words and heed your wisdom. I have invited a great deal of your followers--”

“All of the wizards in Great Britain are my followers, Lucius.” Voldemort interrupted, curious with head slightly tilted.

He swallowed nervously, “Of course, my Lord. Yet, only the worthy are so deserving of your time, your words. Many of the great pure-blood families and our allies are here for you.”

For a moment silence followed and Hermione ground her teeth at the idea that she could possibly be a follower of--

No, wasn’t it true? Here she was, a proper citizen, in a world ruled by what should have been absolute oppression? She would not fall to her knees before Him, certainly, but she wouldn’t couldn’t, openly defy Him either. Wasn’t that just as bad?

She closed her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath. She was pragmatic. She was numb. None of this would matter in the long run so long as she kept her head down and tended to her work.

She was… a _good_ girl now.

“Yes,” Voldemort hissed, head now raised as He looked down His nose at His most loyal follower, “I suppose you’re right.”

Lucius made a soft sound, a sigh of relief.

“However, I do hope the guest I asked for is… here?”

Now he went tense and the crowd shifted, moved by a wave of nervous curiosity. Their mumbles were soft, their words barely coherent, and yet it all seemed so loud to Hermione who strained to understand the implications behind that one simple statement.

“M-my Lord,” Lucius faltered, but it was Draco who stepped away from the crowd with his head held high and his emotions steeled.

"Yes, my Lord.” Draco said, his gaze perfectly leveled with Voldemort’s shoulder while his hands balled into fists at his side. “We’re ready.”

The idle dread that had festered in her belly grew, twisting unhappily with the liquid that had once occupied the flute held between her shaking fingertips.

“Godric have mercy, he’s going to do it.” Came a soft baffled whisper at her side, but she couldn’t turn her head to see her professor’s expression. Her gaze was trapped, enraptured by the Malfoy family and their Dark Lord.

 _Her_ Dark Lord, she supposed bitterly.

“Then let us begin.” From the depths of His robe Voldemort removed His wand. The wood gleamed in the flickering light as He raised it and wordlessly the lanterns around them came to life once more. They twinkled with all their earlier brilliance as the creature that had hovered around the space zoomed off down a random corridor. It was forgotten quickly, no more interesting than a random passing mongrel dog.

“Mr. Pettigrew,” He called, His thin lips upturned as if He’d smelled something particularly rank, “Bring it, my chair.”

The crowd reluctantly parted and Hermione sneered as a stout man in a suit that looked entirely too tight for his body hobbled out with wand extended and a rather plush but oddly average chair levitating behind him. He was quick to set it down, all nervous smiles and eyes that seemed too shiny.

“Yes my Lord, of course, my Lord, here? Is here fine?” He babbled, bobbing his head as he set the chair down none too~ gently behind Voldemort’s form. Hard enough that even Narcissa squinted at the manhandling of the furniture.

If Voldemort were capable of displaying irritation He didn’t and instead, with masculine grace, He settled in the chair.

He took a moment to get comfortable with arms stretched forward and pale fingertips set to grip the end of the arms on the chair and His wand before He looked to the small man and emotionlessly uttered--”Go.”

He bowed once, then again, before he melted back into the crowd. No one moved to touch him nor did they watch his departure. Hermione was surprised he was still even alive.

“My brethren,” Voldemort began, His voice once again able to easily recapture the attention of the currently gathered audience, “It has been too long since we’ve seen immediate change. For six years we have toiled away, creating a better future for ourselves, for our children, for our family blood lines… Yet, we cannot be satisfied with merely _this._ This simplistic falsified peace is shaky, threatened still by those we would call our neighbors.”

Hermione gave a slow lick of her lips, flute now empty though she wished it weren’t.

“They live in ignorance, clinging to old ideals and forsaking our traditions. They are important, are they not, Lucius?”

His answer was immediate-- “Yes, extremely, my Lord.”

“We mustn't let them die. And yes, they are dying, my friends. Purposely.”

The crowd rumbled, unhappy.

“Worry not, I have no intention to allow us to forget them. Our education must be expanded. Like an eager school-child, we must be willing to take something old to create something new, something stronger. I have been researching deep in the old one's tombs that line the ruins of east Albania. I have been _learning,_ forging new paths that will allow us to keep our security and prosperity. Our superiority will not weaken, our magical ways--old and new--will not be tainted by those who’d wish us to mingle with Muggles.”

Here the crowd grew loud, voicing their displeasure openly while Hermione took a deep breath. She felt numb to it, this explosion, or perhaps used to it.

“Silence, our Lord speaks!” Lucius fussed, but Voldemort only had to raise His hand and the crowd was hushed.

“I will not have us mingling with Muggles, we have plenty of power… of blood, here among us.”

“From the Muggle-borns?” Someone whispered from the left of the crowd.

“Of course,” Voldemort replied, His hearing abnormally impeccable, “Our Half-bloods and Muggle-born brethren are eager to prove themselves worthy to our cause. They wield magic just as we do, those Muggle-borns, but they are ignorant of our customs and still worry about their place. We must continue to teach them. Their complicity will assist with our progression, we are the shepherds and they are our lambs.”

He paused for a moment to glance around the crowd and Hermione saw a great deal of uncomfortable and confused faces.

“My Lord!” Cried a voice, breathy and strained as Umbridge pushed to the front of the crowd.

“My Lord, the Muggle-borns are dangerous! Already we have allowed them to remain among us and I still fear they steal and tear at our bloodlines, weakening us with their overall presence and lack of control!”

“Lack of control, you say?” He replied. If Hermione hadn’t known any better she’d have said He was amused.

“Yes! A Muggle-born is nearly beast like, my Lord. They’ve stolen our magic--”

A groan erupted from the crowd.

“--And have fooled our society into thinking they are one of us, but they are impure. I fear no amount of education can change that, only tight regulation. My Lord, I find it unwise that they are not strictly controlled. Within them dwells the distinctive need for violence and anarchy.”

Hermione sucked in her bottom lip, biting it so hard she could taste copper in her mouth. She tried to remember to breathe but a powerful urge was building within her, one that whispered sweetly of how quickly she could end this drivel if only she were to remove her wand from her purse and _point._

“Interesting, don’t you think? This theory of stolen magic? Lucius, if you would?”

With a brief bow of acknowledgement, Lucius motioned to the crowd and from the darkness Yaxley appeared, his hands held tightly around a thickly wrapped book. Quickly Lucius removed the coverings and handled the object to the Lord, who took it carefully, treating it with an amount of care Hermione would have thought Him incapable of.

“In the tombs, I uncovered a great deal of theory-work on magic, on pure-blood, and on Muggle-borns. I find these theories far more… credible, Ms. Umbridge.”

The woman paled considerably while Draco, now beside his mother, lifted a hand to cover his smile.

“It is suspicious, isn’t it? The power they hold? Why some would say there are Muggle-borns out there with more force and potential than a pure-blood.”

Now, the crowd rumbled uncomfortably again but out there among the faces there were smiles, strange smiles.

“That’s a waste to me. Destroying and oppressing magical persons of genuine talent when they could be cultivated, nurtured… and lead down the _right_ path. You would see the squandering of that talent, Ms. Umbridge?”

Umbridge swallowed thickly, face flushed and hands flexing but she was quick to speak, “No, my Lord. Never! But I must state that I doubt they have talent. They were merely basking in the glory of their betters. Lucky, perhaps! Taking the credit for things they couldn’t possibly accomplish--”

“And what of the Golden Girl?”

Hermione gasped, but luckily the sound was absorbed by the roar of the crowd whose surprised sounds seemed exaggerated in comparison. She hadn’t expected Him to remember her, to speak of her, not here, not now.

_Please, don’t let Him know I’m here._

“The mud--Granger? The swot? That slip of a girl she--”

“Many theorists stated that _The Boy--_ ” The way He referred to him  made her shiver, “Would not have made it as far as he had without her.”

Some part of her, small and twisted and hungry for praise, swelled at the unspoken implications of her genius and talent. She grew flushed under the missed attention as He indirectly talked about her. She was confused by how powerful the reaction felt. He was not truly her Lord, and certainly, He couldn’t have possibly been impressed.

“I don’t… she…” Umbridge opened and closed her mouth like a gaping fish with sweat-slick brow and trembling fists. “Surely you don’t believe that.”

So much for not embarrassing the Minister.

Slowly He leaned forward, His pale fingertips gently splayed over the pages of the book in His possession as the glow of unamused red leaked from beneath the hood that hid His features.

“Ms. Umbridge, what if I told you what I think about these ancient texts and these theories about our Muggle-born community? What if I told you that I believe you incapable of growth, stunted due to a lack of fresh blood, fresh _pure_ blood that some of our misunderstood brethren could possess?”

The sound of indignation she made was loud among the sudden silence. The crowd failed to react, perhaps stunned by Voldemort’s admission. Hermione was suddenly painfully interested in whatever He had to say and rather wished the toad-like woman would melt back among the crowd with her shame and her crackpot regressive ideals.

“I… you can’t….W-wha--” Umbridge stuttered, but Voldemort pressed on.

“Listen very careful for I am not the sort to repeat myself,” His words were harsh but his tone was light, amused, and eager, “How did the very first of our people come about? All those centuries ago? Before Salazar? Before Merlin? They were born with their magic, perhaps from the mundane, from Muggles in this case, my dear.”

Slowly He leaned back, the gleam of His gaze fervent with passion, “They were the first of our kind, our liberators in fact. Powerful, inspirational, and awe-inspiring. They carved our cultural path and put in place the very laws that now govern us and we, their loyal children, have taken great care to uphold their teachings.”

He scanned the crowd briefly and Hermione swore His gaze lingered on her.

“So where does that leave our other families, my brethren? How did they come about? How did they suddenly discover they were different from their inferior surroundings? They broke the chains of their Muggle bondage and established our great families and along the way we forgot that great families do not merely manifest themselves from thin air.”

Slowly He rose from His throne and approached a trembling Umbridge, the book carefully set to rest upon the chair once it floated from His open palms to the space He no longer occupied. He pushed uncaringly into her personal space and towered over her with only the idle swish of His robes as proof He existed. Her squeak of anxiety was ignored by the crowd, no man nor woman moved to help her as He took His wand and gently placed it beneath her chin.

 _Yes,_ Hermione thought, hanging on His every word and fansinated by his actions against the woman that had made her youth a living hell. She was swept up in the propaganda He whispered like sweet poison, caught and yet unaware the trap had been sprung.

“They are born _First._ ”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“I did not expect you to,” Voldemort replied smoothly, “These are higher concepts, I’d only expect the brightest of minds to grasp. I will, however, continue to explain it as one such as yourself could use the education.”

“M-my Lord, I--”

“--These Muggle-borns are not our enemies. Not all of them. Some are lazy, unintelligent, unworthy… but I have met a great deal of blood traitors that I would claim are the same. Pure-bloods, even some among us here, that are just as… filthy and useless.”

Umbridge cringed but didn’t dare move as the tip of the wand pressed more firmly against the twitching skin of her pulse, “Yet, there are some Muggle-borns among us with extraordinary talent. Undocumented ability that has been… wasted because we were improperly informed by former now liquidated departments.”

If Umbridge wanted to scowl she didn’t dare do so before the Lord, yet Hermione doubted she could do much other than shiver in fear. How fascinating!

“My brethren, I have cause to believe that some of our Muggle-born friends are Firstborn. These witches and wizards are the first of their own individual pure-blood lines, lines that must be separated from their Muggle parents in order to thrive. This discovery will not only replenish our world of viable magical persons but provide more eager followers ready to commit to our ways and embrace our traditions as we expand and revive the great families. The proper order of things has been lost to us for far too long. Our ancient texts are spread far and wide across the landscape, forbidden even to their rightful owners! Our enemy have festered a misguided sense of hate that must now be thrust toward purpose. We will collect those Muggle-borns who we feel are First and guide them in the proper pure-blood ways. They will renounce the pitiful Muggle heritage they have been brainwashed to embrace and join us seamlessly as true wizards and witches as the first of their lines. Rejoice, for soon we will fatten our ranks with the worthy and avoid the death of our bloodlines by mixing it with Firstborn purity. Do you understand? Do any of you understand?”

Lucius was the first to scream, his voice loud and impassioned--”Yes, my Lord!”

Then it spread, a sickening madness that swept up His most loyal first. They screeched about His glory, cried out about his wisdom. All too soon she heard someone else from the crowd suddenly scream out in crazed fanaticism until roars of ‘Our savior!’ and ‘Brilliant!’ rolled around her like a rising tide. Her breath came in great gulps as she registered the implications of this speech. He was twisting them into something else, turning her blood into _something more_ than it had ever been recognized as before. Yet, in doing so He was binding every viable or talented wizard to His collective. To resist or deny His theory would result in that Muggle-born being deemed disposible rubbish, nothing more than a false figure unworthy of magic. It was a carefully cultvated political platform for the new age no longer run on the fear of mingling but on some sense of perverted selective unity. Whether whatever He spoke was right or wrong He had them screaming His name, crying out for justice toward their yet visible enemies to free their ‘newly recovered pure-bloods’ from the lies that had made them lesser.

All because He willed it.

And it was that power He used to calm them. With only a slight raise of His hand, they quieted, leaving only heavy breathing and idle whispers behind. Umbridge was still His captive, held frozen in place by the strength of His gaze and the threat of His wand.

“So, do you see? Ms. Umbridge? It has been your misinformation that has kept us from progress. We were hunting, oppressing, killing possible lines. This is the sort of drivel Albus and his misguided Order might have spread--”

Those once soft whispers became growls of disgust as faces twisted in anger. Hermione spared a glance to her company but found Luna only amused, with high raised brows and wide glistening eyes while her professor looked tired. _Incredibly_ tired.

“--to keep us from understanding our true potential. Yet, I must be mistaken. I did not fancy you a witch that took stock in anything Albus might have spewed.”

“No!” She blurted out, her breath leaving her in a panic, “No! Never, my Lord!”

“Then, unless you have more to say, perhaps you’d like to take your place among the crowd?”

She licked her lips like a frightened rabbit, but as she stepped back while rubbing her hands together she had one last thing to say--”P-proof, my Lord.”

“Proof?”

“Y-yes. Do we have… do we have proof? Proof that a Muggle-born could really be a…”

“Firstborn, Ms. Umbridge?”

“Yes. You said that only some may be Firstborn, that only some have the potential to rise among us.”

“That is correct.”

“T-then… who? Who could possibly--”

With a flick of His wand He cut her off, sealing her voice with a nonverbal spell that left her gasping for air and clutching her thick throat.

“I am not in the mood to be questioned, though I will indulge your curiosity.”

He turned to the crowd, ignoring the heavy meaty thud that Umbridge made when her knees hit the pretty manor floors. “There is already one identified Firstborn, a Muggle-born of suspicious talent. It was something I suspected long before I encountered these texts though now that it has been confirmed I wish to start work immediately.”

_Oh._

“I will start our tradition now, I will usher in a new era of change--appropriate and perfected. I will sponsor the very _first_ of our new first generation pure-blood lines. I will share my knowledge, my wealth, my prestige, and all that comes with it to further the progression of this individual's family name.”

_Oh no._

“And in return, all I ask for is absolute obedience.”

_Oh no no no._

“Our Firstborn is here, is she not, Lucius?”

Lucius stepped forward, ignoring the blue faced Umbridge and her loud obnoxious wheezing. “She is, my Lord.”

“Good,” Finally He released His victim and she fell over, her pretty--no, it was hideous--pink dress rumpled about her hips.

“Then bring her to me. The Golden Girl.”

She dropped her flute, though the sound of shattering glass was absorbed by the wild screaming in her head. Hermione took a step back, then another, but Luna’s grip upon her wrist kept her from running. The crowd was roaring their approval and their confusion. Faces were searching the collective, seeking _her_ and Luna was keeping her from leaving. She jerked her wrist but her companion seemed unnaturally strong in that moment, tightening her hold as she smiled almost wistfully in her direction. She mouthed something, whispered words that were easily devoured by the sound of shuffling feet and clinking glasses, but despite her panic Hermione understood her words.

_‘He’ll destroy you if you fail here.’_

She tugged once, then again, and Hermione found herself moving forward.

“Here, my Lord! I have her.”

Her voice was so sweet, so painfully interested, as if Hermione’s heart wasn’t thudding powerfully against her chest and her eyes weren’t slick from a sudden sense of fear. Despite her maturity, despite her age, she felt like a little girl again, lost and alone without The Boy or the ginger and forced to face the possibility of eradication alone.

Yet instead she was facing another sort of destruction, some vast unpredictable chasm had opened up ready to devour her and she was being pushed toward the edge by her own friend.

“I hate you.” She trembled, her palms slick and purse clutched in her free hand.

“You don’t,” Luna answered casually.

Hermione only had time to toss a look over her shoulder toward her professor but the older woman was gone, already swallowed up by the eager crowd or perhaps departed thus leaving her to the mercy of Voldemort and his plan.

She suddenly felt very very alone.

Luna stopped them before the Lord and Hermione kept her head down, willing herself to become invisible before His presence. The warmth of the hand upon her wrist felt more like a shackle, something binding her to a destiny she wasn’t ready to commit to. She couldn’t raise her head, she lacked the courage, the strength, but she could see His wand as the tip glowed ever so slightly, perhaps still hot from Umbridge earlier strangulation session.

“Ah, Ms. Granger, was it?” One of His hands moved and soon she felt chilled fingertips upon her cheek. She swallowed harshly and held her breath as He lifted her head. “No need to be frightened, my dear. Today is the beginning of your glory filled life.”

She had always wanted to hear those words, but never from Him.

“Take her away.” He mumbled, and two figures broke from the crowd to grab Umbridge's coughing twitching body and haul it back to the collective.

“My Lord,” Draco said, his tone impossible soft and small, so far away in Hermione’s ears, “She is to be your sponsored Firstblood?”

“Yes, Draco,” Voldemort replied though His gaze never wavered from her. “Should she prove herself in the trail.”

Though she could not see him well from the corner of her vision she saw Draco smile. It was utterly wicked, filled with the sort of excitement that did nothing to ease the tumbling fear in her belly.

“My Lord, I would ask to test her with your blessing, this first generation pure-blood, so that she may find her place among our families. As she is the only heir of the Granger line, for her to ascend to a worthy position in your regime I find it only proper she display her… potential among other heirs.”

She held her breath, lost and barely conscious of the words Draco spoke. Her attention was upon Voldemort and the power she felt ooze from His fingertips. She could almost taste it, the force of His authority, the dominance of this man… no, this _thing_ that no one would dare to question sans the foolish. To call Him something as simple as a man was to… humanizing. He was no man, not here among His worshippers.

Because certainly they thought Him a god.

“How clever of you, Draco. Your opinion, though not asked, is indeed an interesting one. I shall agree to your petition. Let us see the might of Malfoy’s hier against Ms. Granger. Though, you shall have assistance.”

He released her and suddenly sounds came back into focus. She gasped and stumbled backward, released from Luna’s grip as the woman raised her hand as if she were still in class and not the beginning of some twisted pure-blood ceremony. With a hand to her chest, she tried to catch her breath and watched as Voldemort turned to her friend.

“Ms. Lovegood, you too wish to test Ms. Granger in the trails?”

“As her companion, it seems only proper. I claimed rights over this one, my Lord.”

Hermione gaped as Luna flashed her a dazzling smile. She spoke so familiarly with Him, as if they were discussing tea and nothing more.

“Then take your place.”

Luna gave a slow wave of her hand before she moved to the opposite side of the room from Draco. The crowd was abuzz with excitement and quickly made room as another figure slipped from the darkness--

“M-my Lord! I, as well!” Pansy stuttered, trying to appear brave in the face of absolute terror.

“Your place, then,” Voldemort replied.

_Enough._

“W-what is this? What’s happening?” Hermione found herself placed at the center of a peer made triangle. Draco to her right, Luna to her left, and Pansy directly facing her. They held their wands at the ready and while Luna looked pleasantly at ease she didn’t much care for the looks Draco and Pansy gave her. They were too hungry, too eager.

“Ms. Granger, you will prove yourself to be a proper Firstborn. You will duel your peers in a brief test of your ability and should you please our Lord you will be granted your sponsorship and education.” Narcissa said, speaking for the first time that evening in a tone that seemed superior and bored.

“I’m going to… I didn’t… agree.”

“You plan to disagree?” The woman asked, the frosty bite of her words more than enough to stir more fear within Hermione. She gave a soft huff as she stepped past her husband and moved toward her son with carefully controlled hands. Out of all the wizards and witches there she seemed the least impressed with the display she was witnessing. “I doubt that’s rather wise and you are the brightest witch of your age, are you not?”

Hermione’s tongue felt thick and heavy in her mouth-- “One cannot simply claim that I am a… Firstborn. I am no woman of particular importance--”

“--Our Lord finds you important,” She answered back casually, only pausing in speech to fuss with Draco’s hair and tie. “Tsk Draco, stand up straight now.”

Hermione bit her lip and flinched unaware that she had practically gnawed a hole through it earlier that evening, “W-what do I need to do? To… to prove to my Lord that I am worthy?”

For if she was anything, she was pragmatic.

“As I said you will duel and if your performance is admirable--don’t slouch, Draco--you will join our elite as our Lord’s sponsored. His… apprentice, if you will. It would no doubt make you…”

Here she hesitated and cast her gaze not to Hermione or even the Dark Lord but to the looming darkness of the spiral staircase before them. She stared there for some time prompting others in the crowd to toss their gaze in that direction but if she’d found anything there it didn’t matter for all to soon she was back to fussing over Draco.

“Yes… it would make you one of the most powerful wizarding families in Great Britain since the Noble Ancient House of Black.”

The gasps that rang out after that drowned Hermione’s questions and while her mouth flopped open Narcissa hastily approached her, stiff and devoid of emotion. She reached her out hands and made a habit of fussing with Hermione’s hair and adjusting her dress, an action so out of place and surreal that she was flabbergasted by the moment.

“You must listen and you must listen carefully, you silly girl.” Narcissa hissed and though her hands remained gentle her tone was not, “If you fail here, you will die. You will be known as false, a Muggle-born undeserving, and you will be destroyed. There is no redo, no return to St. Mungo’s, only oblivion.”

And then she moved to Pansy, who puffed out her chest and grinned with nervous excitement.

Hermione quickly opened her clutch and with trembling hands withdrew her wand. She felt torn asunder, out of her element and out of the control needed to survive it. Yet something else stirred within her when she felt the familiar warmth of her wand and the weight of its wood, something long dead, something that had held no place within her after the war.

Adrenaline? Need? _Purpose?_

She couldn’t describe it, the anticipation that built in her belly, nor could she contain it as Narcissa carefully went to fuss with Luna next who tried to strike up a conversation about Nargles and garden weeds only to be hushed when the older witch sighed and put a finger to her lips.

Some part of her, tired and yet now flexing, _wanted_ this. Some small sheltered part of her being shivered with the chance to utilize her magic for more than closing doors and flicking on lights. It made her throat feel tight and her skin itch while energy tingled along her flesh--raw potential just waiting to be manipulated, used…

“Bow.” He said and Hermione obeyed without thought, bowing deeply to her duel mates as she tried to control the rushing pump of her blood and the heat that began to tumble through her belly, thick and strong and entirely totally misplaced.

“Begin.”

“ _Flipendo!_ ’ Pansy screeched, her voice so loud Hermione thought the very rafters might have shaken with the expression of the spell. She thrust her wand out perfectly and Hermione twisted to the side to avoid the spell which was flung off in some direction behind her by a whooping crowd member's deflection.

Draco was quick to move forward, wordlessly thrusting out his wand in a spell Hermione didn’t hear, but her senses were tuned and she was quick to take her wand and deflect the wayward shimmering silver toward the ceiling where it cracked loudly against the wood.

She thought she heard a sound of irritation from the nearby Narcissa for that.

Her wordless spell was noticed but her opponents weren’t finished. With a soft mumble, Luna thrust a spell in her direction which she quickly twisted around to catch and rebound toward a nearby casting Pansy. Her squeal as she dove toward the floor was enough to let Hermione know she had some time to face Draco right before his next spell shot like a beam from the tip of his wand.

One breath, then another. One spell, then another. She twisted and twirled with a grace she hadn’t expressed since her youth, keeping back the onslaught of spells that threatened to tear her asunder. The stakes were high and the intensity of the battle more than enough to keep her on her toes--despite the fact that she was dueling in heels--and yet…

She’d never felt so _alive._

She didn’t bother to resist the smile that spread across her face when she successfully hit Draco with a stinging jinx. His snarl of pain and displeasure was music to her ears and it wasn’t long before she was… _laughing_ as she slung spell after spell back in his direction in retaliation.

Fun, this was fun.

With one hand covering his face and the other holding his wand he flinched and jerked while throwing up shield after shield until--

“ _Crucio!”_ Pansy was back on her feet and the ominous color of the once forbidden curse as it swung toward her was her only warning before she twisted about to face it.

Wordlessly her shield-charm went up, bouncing the spell into the crowd and despite how weak it felt when it smashed against her barriers she still heard someone screech as it collided with their chest.

 _Pansy…_ Her mind snarled and her smile twisted further into something less than friendly.

With a hiss, she thrust out her wand and the magic came to her call, easy and familiar and yet, this time, _different._ From the tip came a burst of blue flame, wild and hungry as it streamed toward Pansy at near incomprehensible speeds. She twisted the fire to do her bidding, commanded it’s properties to change and fit her situation and the magic obeyed, eager to assist, to burn, to consume.

Pansy screamed as the funnel of fire broke over her person and hit her with such a force that she was flung up and back into the scrambling crowd. The fire burned and ate at her clothing while she rolled and flopped about, pressing an unbearable heat about the room that even Voldemort’s icy presence could not calm. There was yelling to the left, to the right, everywhere but the fire did not spread--not with Narcissa there barking at the guests to **move move mOvE!** \--and Hermione could not afford to split her attention for as soon as she had sent Pansy soaring she heard--

“ _Colloshoo.”_   Luna’s voice was so soft among the chaos but the spell that struck her was more than effective. She jerked as her shoes refused to move and hissed while Draco twisted his wand in preparation for more spell-slinging, seemingly unbothered that his fellow Slytherin classmate was still rolling about on the ground and screeching.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_

With a gasp, she watched her wand fly from her grip while she twisted and shook in her frozen shoes. Luna and Draco--the latter of which laughed happily--approached her. With a snort, she gave the pair an uneasy smile and as they raised their wands to finish the duel she flung one arm forward--

The first small explosion rocked the chandelier above them ripping it loose from its magical foundation while the second ripped a banner askew and it fell smoking to the ground. Draco and Luna dove out the way as the massive structure came barrelling down from the ceiling only to smash into hundreds of tiny pieces in the spot they had formerly occupied. They stumbled to their feet confused as another small blast rocked the space sending more of the crowd pushing back and tumbling over each other as they tried to predict the effects of her magic.

Her _wandless magic._

She broke out into a cold sweat as she reached for her wand and with only a soft mutter it snapped up from the ground and into her grip, instantly amplifying her control and filling her with a sense of exhilaration. Their distraction was enough for her to wiggle her feet out of her shoes and once her bare toes were firmly on the cold ground she began the second round.

And pressed forward to end it quickly.

“ _Expelliarmus!”_ She stated firmly, yanking Luna’s wand from her grip with enough strength to send her toppling forward before she quickly turned her wand to Draco and snarled--” _Stupefy!”_

She hadn’t given him time to prepare and as such he flopped over uselessly once the spell hit him straight in the chest. Panting wildly she then turned to Luna who had her hands up in the universal sign of surrender but her eyes still twinkled with the sort of mirth that should have only been reserved for less lethal games.

She was… proud of her.

“ _Enough!_ ” Voldemort yelled with the strength to calm the roaring crowd and be heard over the rush of blood in Hermione’s body.

“I’ve seen enough.”

With a snap of His fingers, Lucius rushed forward, his grip around his son as he began the appropriate counterspells to relieve Draco from his stupor. Luna casually strolled to pick up her wand and Pansy shambled out from the crowd, her pretty dress and hair ruined but her flesh intact if a bit red and overheated.

Her purse had been lost in the chaos but she could have cared less. She had never felt so alive, so aware of how numb and drab her everyday existence had been before _this_. Even when Luna dispelled her shoes she found them just as boring as her actual reality and was somewhat reluctant to step back into them, as if reclaiming them would be to return to that shell again.

She couldn’t live like that, not anymore. She wanted to feel.

“Ms. Granger, you have impressed me with your defensive and offensive use of spellwork.”

She gave a slow nod of her head trying not to show how strongly His praise impacted her. She cursed the swirling feelings of adoration and blamed it on His unnaturally effective charisma.

“T-thank you, my Lord.”

“You are worthy and shall join our new age as the first Granger of your line. Tell me, my dear, where are your Muggle parents?”

She felt the color drain from her face as she looked up from the mess she’d made of the chandelier and the dented floor--”A-ah… sir?”

He was quiet, patient, waiting...

“I am not sure, m-my Lord.” Hermione swallowed thickly, “They do not remember me, they are unaware I exist.”

His smile was wicked, a true genuine display of his pleasure. “Excellent, my dear. Already you have renounced your old roots and are eager to embrace your true purpose.”

She had nothing to say to that, she wasn't sure if it was true.

“Come, Hermione.”

Her name on His lips made her shiver, or perhaps it was the creeping fear that mixed ever so well with the battle-lust that still clung like beads of sweat to her skin. He held His hand out to her, the pale flesh almost glowing in the lantern light and she was hard pressed to take the offered appendage. With twitching fingers she took the offered hand, her heart still very much a jack rabbit in her chest as He turned her around to display for the crowd.

They were quiet, staring at her like mindless zombies, waiting to either condemn or praise her all depending on the moods and ideals of their precious Lord.

And in return, she too was bound by His scheme, bound by the promise of an education she could have never had back in Hogwarts and various darker aspects that frightened her beyond comprehension.

Shame that her excitement was so much greater.

“I present to you Potter’s former Golden Girl, now MY Golden Firstborn. She will be the beacon of change, the heroine to guide us toward our new future. You saw her display, her command of wandless magic. So untrained, so sloppy, and yet the chance for growth is there! The Granger family is now secondary to my own. This protege, my apprentice, will only be petitioned by those I find pleasing and valuable to my reign.”

She breathed heavily before the crowd, her eyes wide and unseeing as she twisted her gaze this way and that. He held her hand firmly, lifted her arm above her head as if she were some prize He had acquired. His mention of Harry barely registered, The Boy was far from her mind. It was His words that continued to rattle about her head or specifically the last bit of them.

Petition?

“A proper maiden needs a proper courting. Who will be the first to approach my apprentice? Her companion rights have been claimed by Ms. Lovegood, there can be no other until proper union--”

Companion? What?

“Who seeks this Firstborn’s hand?”

For a moment there was silence, deafening and all-consuming but from the corner came a blurted--”I do, my Lord! I would be proud to court your Firstborn!”

Then another yelled from the crowd--”Me! My Lord! I am worthy! Me!”

Followed by, surprisingly Pansy--”I would do it, my Lord! Please, allow me!”

With a wide open mouth, Hermione watched them bid toward the Dark Lord. Women, men, even Draco puffed out his chest as he stumbled to his feet, screaming that he had known her the longest and was thus owed the right.

Yet it wasn’t until a bone-chilling cackle broke through the bidding that Hermione felt cold, as if her very heart had stopped and there was nothing to fill her lungs with. It came from the spiral staircase and the darkness that dwelled there, such a nasty wicked thing it was, that laugh. Sometimes it haunted her dreams like a familiar obsession, inspiring unwanted misplaced longing for _something more_ among the terror it inflicted. For, as wicked as it was, as wicked as _she_ was, there was no denying the beauty to that beast.

“Pick me, my Lord, oh please pick me.” That voice purred, so soft and sensual, with just a touch of _mocking madness_ as wild hair tumbled over a fair-skinned face and lips pulled back to reveal perfectly white and properly cared for teeth.

The collection shrunk back, their lips closed, their bids silent, and even Draco hunched over defeated with glistening pupils and eyes a tad too wide.

“My dear, come closer. Let the girl get a good look.” Voldemort said, but His voice seemed barely a whisper as Hermione lifted her gaze to the staircase behind her, wearing what she was sure to be a look of unrestrained horror.

And yet when they locked eyes something else, something indescribable and foreign, swam up from the depths of her gaze.

“Hello, my pet.” Bellatrix Lestrange said in sing-song tone and playful manner. “I’ve missed you.”

 


	7. the good show

Bellatrix Lestrange was the sort of woman no witch or wizard could hold to the proper standards of pure-blood aristocracy. She was not dressed like the wizarding elite, she did not carry her hair piled high upon her head nor adorn her neck with precious jewels and yet every eye remained steady upon her as she took to the staircase with a painfully confident air. Each step, slow and meticulous, seemed painfully loud in the thick silence that blanketed the ball room, but no one dared to break it--whether by cough or the clink of expensive glasses against metal rings. She held them all entranced, His favored Second, with only a twisted smile.

So wild, she was, so unrestrained and primal. From the wild curls that flowed like raging waters down her shoulders and back to the black dress--oddly plain and yet still appropriate for the occasion--that clung to her like a second skin. Nothing had changed in her demeanor, nothing had dampened the suffocating authority she wielded without effort, and time had only aged her flawlessly filling out a slender war-sleek body until it represented the weapon it had been meant to become. So feminine, and yet perfectly crafted.

She was so  _ horrifyingly _ beautiful, and she had no right to be.

That was what terrified Hermione most. Not her bubbling laughter, which spilled from her lips like poisoned wine or the wicked tongue that was drawn across her perfectly fixed and functional teeth. Victory had only made her shine with renewed life and vigor, even six years later her eyes still twisted with the building tempest of a barely maintained sense of sanity.

_ How _ ? How could this woman still be alive? How could this woman still seem so painfully vibrant while she’d been dulled and emptied?

_ Did she remember? _

Was that what kept her going? The sounds of those whom had fallen beneath her clawed fingertips, screaming and writhing? The memory was so powerful, still powerful, and haunting in its nature. Yet, over the years it had become something more, something she refused to acknowledge when she woke, screaming and covered in sweat.

Such a shame that all that wickedness was stalking down the stairs and toward her.

She was trapped, held still like some trophy by the Dark Lord whose cold fingertips remained wrapped possessively about her wrist. Slowly, He lowered her arm, while His chest rattled with a sound that barely registered beyond the buzz of Hermione’s ears.  His lips pressed thin as the dancing lanterns cast shadows across His face yet there was a defining lack of displeasure reflected in the glow of His crimson gaze.

He was curious, as curious as any other wizard or witch in the space, while Hermione only held one major all-consuming emotion in her being.

Was the flare of Bellatrix nostrils purposeful? Or could she smell the terror that oozed from her skin? Could she hear the thick flow of her blood as it pumped from her beating heart and into her veins? Adrenaline still clung to her like magically-enhanced cloth but she didn’t dare rip her arm away from the Dark Lord’s grip, no matter how loudly her natural instinct screamed at her to run or fight.

Run or fight.

_ Run. _

“Bellatrix,” He said, His chilling tone somehow soothing against the tempest of discomfort that twisted through her belly. She was His… Firstborn. Surely, if only due to that, she had little to fear?

Or maybe, everything to fear because of it.

“My Lord,” She purred, her bow impossibly deep, her reverence sincerely humble. It was startling, to see such devotion expressed so easily in another's body language. Though Lucius had bowed so low his lips could have been metaphorically on the ground he hadn’t seemed raw,  _ real  _ in his servitude. Yet, somehow Bellatrix was and it did nothing to lessen the impact of her authority.

She was dangerous, but tamable, if only due to His overwhelming presence.

“Rise,” He answered simply and Bellatrix rose smoothly, standing tall with hip cocked and hand resting casually upon it.

For a moment silence reigned and no more bids echoed across the room. If anything, there was now a suspicious amount of space between her little party and the other guests. Now, among an ocean of eyes, they became the center of attention. Her, the Dark Lord, and the woman who often plagued her dreams. Only Narcissa and Draco seemed unafraid, or maybe unaware of the space the Dark Lord had quietly commandeered.

And Luna, who stood nearby with brows quirked so high she looked perpetually surprised.

“You wish to court my Firstborn?” He broke the silence, His voice a careful whisper saturated in curiosity.

“I do,” Bellatrix answered plainly, her own tone steady as her gaze flickered toward the crowd, “I’d say I’m rather worthy.”

Nonsense, none of the beasts that clawed and clamored for Voldemort’s attention were  _ worthy _ . Especially not… not--

“You are my greatest,” He commented casually.

“That I am,” She answered, somehow making the statement seem incredibly truthful without attached arrogance.

“And Rodolphus?”

To that question Bellatrix gave a careful tilt of her head, her gaze of brown no longer set to wander about the crowd but now leveled directly upon Hermione. She shivered as they raked down her form, so dark and deep among the flickering lanterns that she feared she’d fall and drown. “Separated, as you know, my Lord. We were partners, but that partnership has run it’s course.”

As if privy to some inside joke the Dark Lord chuckled, His raspy laugh enough to inspire a few other nervous titters throughout the crowd. “Then you would court her as…?”

“Black, my Lord. Bellatrix Black.”

The light titters in the crowd transformed into babble, their screeching questions and cries of ‘that’s not terribly fair!’ impossibly loud to Hermione, who found herself still trapped within the magnetic pull of Bellatrix gaze. The loud astonished roaring felt like sandpaper, dry and raw and set to rub the inside of her skull until she could barely formulate a coherent thought. It was all so terribly tedious, their sudden whining, especially when one considered it was not their life Bellatrix's unwanted attention impacted.

“My L-lord,” Hermione stuttered, hoping her voice was heard over the crowd as her teeth clamped tight and her jaw began to ache, “This is… I do not deserve--”

“You are correct in that,” Voldemort replied, though He spared her no gaze. She cringed at His tone, so dry and impossibly factual, as if she were still some child, in comparison to Him, who knew nothing about the affairs of adults or her betters, “You are not yet deserving.”

Hermione parted her lips to speak, but Voldemort merely tightened His grip, crushing her words within her mouth as He playfully squeezed the flesh and bones that made up her wrist.

“Silence, my dear. You mean to say you do not deserve to be treated as meat, do you not? I find our opinions are slightly different. You are not deserving of much, perhaps not even my attention… and yet you shall receive all that I have to give, even if the manner in which I give it is… disagreeable.”

His words were so loud to her, as if He were not merely speaking but had invaded her mind. He was a worm mingling in with her thoughts, picking and plucking out the pieces that caused Him displeasure and idly examining each with curious fancy.

And here she was, no great practitioner of Occlumency and not exactly sure if she was being merely paranoid and easily readable.

He gave nothing away, no hint as to whether He could hear her every thought but He did stop the complaining crowd with only a sigh and a raised palm.

“My my, such spirits tonight.” He commented casually, but those that had once spoke abruptly now seemed incapable of speaking at all. Whether magic or fear held them back Hermione wasn’t certain, “Do you hear their displeasure, Bellatrix?”

“I do,” The woman answered, but her attention, her focus, those  _ eyes _ , were all for Hermione. For all she knew the older woman might have believed there was no one else in that room and no need to bother caring about their so called displeasure. “I will not take back my petition. This one, this one is  _ mine. _ ”

Hermione hissed softly, with narrowed gaze and thumping heart, a sound that seemed just enough to make Bellatrix quirk a brow before something wild flickered in her gaze. It wasn’t long before that smile, that  _ haunting _ grin, split her lips once more and in that moment Hermione knew… she knew this woman was still incurably mad.

Yet, there was something else there too. Some new found twisted intellect that mixed incredibly well with the ferality that was His greatest warrior.  

“Then who am I to prevent such a union? You will court her appropriately?”

“Ah yes yes, my Lord. I am extremely appropriate.”

Somewhere behind her, she swore she heard Narcissa snort.

“I am very much the traditionalist.” Voldemort stated, “Our old ways must be preserved.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Bellatrix replied, while Hermione practically ground her perfect teeth, hating the mystery behind phrases and pure-blood traditions she’d never bothered to study.

“Then I shall allow it, your petition.” He stated plainly, and the crowd seemed to ripple with the finality of the words as Voldemort extended their joined hands--or rather Hermione’s limp hand as it hung from her trapped wrist in His mighty grip--toward the older woman whose very breath seemed to rush from her in great pants of excitement over what was no doubt some magnificent honor given to her by the Dark Lord.

Then a screech of rage, one so sudden and raw that even the Dark Lord seemed taken aback by it’s existence. It did not come from her, no matter how heavy the twisting heat in her chest made itself, nor had it come from Bellatrix, whose eyes were wide and focused beyond her shoulder.

No, it came from the horrendously dressed and now thoroughly wrinkled Umbridge as she shoved her way to the front, rudely knocking over a few patrons who cried out in indignation at her appalling behavior. Hermione glanced over her shoulder, twisting her neck in a manner that was nearly painful in her desperation to see what was going on behind her, while Bellatrix stood at her front with face twisted in outrage and teeth slick with spittle on full display--so perfect, they were, who did them?

Behind Umbridge, left alone in the cleared path of her destruction, stood Thicknesse with a face so red and flustered it seemed swollen and bright in the darkness. Yet, he was slow to follow her--and even slower to mumble apologies to those she had knocked aside.

Voldemort, for the most part, remained an unimpressed statue at her side. Maybe He was curious about her antics, maybe He was livid. Hermione found herself a bit of both, unsure as to why she was so unhappy with the disruption but knowing that this woman would do all she could and more to humiliate her, even if it meant disrupting the Dark Lord’s unnecessary ceremony.

With a grotesque sneer Dolores raised her wand and without any preamble or hesitation she pointed it in Hermione’s general direction.

“ _ Avada Kedavra! _ ”

Hermione wasn’t sure she had ever heard something yelled so fervently. No, that wasn’t correct. Bellatrix had no doubt screeched at her with just as much passion, so many years ago, in the very same manor. This time, however, it was not some simple torture spell that was being flung in her direction. It was bolt of green energy, all fire and focused potential, meant to collide with her person and snuff out her existence. Yet, the impact was redirected. It streamed forward, aimed sloppily and yet controlled enough for its intended purpose but she was moving, being yanked away from the Lord with such force and power that she felt her feet lift off the ground. There’s no scream from Hermione, no startled gasp or sound of shock, only a grunt as she felt her back smack into soft flesh. The wild green energy streamed past her, just barely missing a strand of hair as it spiraled toward the crowd.  There had been sound--screams, yells, the scraping of wood against no longer perfect floors--and the green light splattered harmlessly against the overturned wood of what had once been a full banquet table.

People were moving, shouting, but Hermione’s vision was blurry and her mind slow. The Dark Lord stood impassively, watching the commotion with an expression that might have been fury mixed delight while Bellatrix stood behind her. No, stood wasn’t the right word. She wasn’t simply standing. She was pressed against her, holding her impossibly tight with arms wrapped possessively around her center and her head rested against her shoulder while the heat of her breath lightly tickled her ear. She felt flushed, angry, and terrified yet beneath that swelled a sensation of unwanted warmth. She found it hard to describe, she couldn’t tell apart this sudden adrenaline rushing need. She wanted to run--no, to fight, she was tired of running--but the other part of her body wanted to  _ melt. _ The embrace was so terribly familiar, and her skin practically ached with remembrance. She swore she felt the scar of her arm throb, but  _ other _ parts of her were waking up in the same manner.

But why?  _ Why? _

She clutched her wand in her hand as chaos continued to reign about them and found it difficult to suppress a shiver when Bellatrix turned her smirking lips ever so slightly against the side of her neck. “I’ve got you, pet.”

“There’s no need,” Hermione replied, but her voice was barely more than a throaty whisper. “I can handle myself.”

“I suppose there is a great deal to handle,” Bellatrix replied, her tone light and airy despite the mess that continued around them, “But I’m reluctant to let you go. You were, after all, nearly assassinated by--”

Here Bellatrix paused, if only to direct her gaze to the chaos before them. Umbridge had been jumped, almost literally, by several wizards--one of which was Draco and… was that Greyback?--and while she squirmed and drooled beneath them a huffing Thicknesse was dabbing sweat from his brow.

“--...That. That. What is that? Who is that?”

Hermione took a slow breath and tried to ignore the tickle of Bellatrix breath as it rushed past her ear, soft and conspiratory as if the pair of them had always been familiar school gals and not, at some point, mortal enemies. In a way the comparison wasn’t entirely wrong. They were a familiar pair and other than age and perhaps, also height for Hermione felt half a head taller than the older witch, nothing had changed. Not the chaos anyway, only the people involved.

“That would be Dolores Umbridge,” Hermione answered, thrown off by a combination of confusion, anger, indignation, fear and… and… something hot, something liquid and to real. “I didn’t expect her hatred of muggle-borns to run so deeply.”

“Firstborns,” Bellatrix chirped, friendly as she nuzzled Hermione’s bare shoulder, “ It would be otherwise if you weren’t True, so says our Lord, and He has claimed your blood runs thicker than we originally expected. A poor mistake, but the drivel of the past will not impact the Dark Lord’s future.”

“You believe that? Him?” With a nervous lick of lips Hermione watched Narcissa step gracefully around the tumbling cluster of well-dressed wizards and one struggling Dolores. Though her expression was rather composed there was something akin to wild fire dancing in the depths of her normally chilling gaze.

“With every fiber of my being,” Bellatrix answered, though her tone was husky, ominous in presence and timber. “And so shall you, whenever… this is done.”

Narcissa moved to the Dark Lord’s side, her voice casual--as if the revel wasn’t devolving into a strange disaster--while she wordlessly commanded the overturned banquet table to right itself with a delicate swish of a wand holding hand. “My Lord.”

“Yes, Narcissa?” He spoke, His tone only betraying a hint of amusement but not much else.

“I apologize for this… this--”

“Fiasco?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Narcissa’s face wrinkled in disgust as the cluster of wizards hauled Dolores to her feet. She was panting, face red and blotchy with clothing askew, but her gaze was fierce.

“Do not. It was anything but. This event has been very fruitful and the night is still young.” With a soft whisper and a flourished bow of robes and back He leaned over to gently grasp Narcissa’s hand. Hermione stared at the pair with wonder while Bellatrix seemed to hum with an infectious energy, but it was Voldemort’s actions that captured Hermione’s attention. He delivered a kiss to the back of Narcissa’s hand and the woman seemed to stand straighter for it. Gone was the obvious displeasure instead replaced by the normal cold mask, but something had softened in her eyes, some reluctant spark of admiration and surprised.

“You are forever the most gracious host and your work continues to move us forward. Please, rest assured that I am… only mildly irritated. You will not suffer for the lack of discipline in others.”

“M-my Lord,” Her voice stuttered but Hermione could see her relief.

He let go of her hand then, if only to extend his own toward Bellatrix and herself. “Bring me my Golden Girl.”

“Oh…” Hermione gasped, startled, when Bellatrix cackled against her ear and nipped it none-to-gently between sharp teeth.

“He means you, pet.”

Then they were moving, pushing past the debris of the broken chandelier so that Hermione could be carefully placed beside the Dark Lord. She did not resist when Bellatrix took her hand, as if she were some lost broken thing, nor did she complain when she stood at her side sandwiching her between the Dark Lord and herself.

So surreal, all of it. This moment, this position… entirely to surreal.

“My Lord?” Hermione questioned, proud at the steadiness of her voice and her ability to ignore the warmth of Bellatrix hand which fit so perfectly in her own. A part of her wanted to take it from her grip, to hiss in her direction, to tantrum and scream about not being prepared enough to endure this moment and how they had no right to thrust upon her such ridiculous frivolous pure-blood notions. Yet, the other part of her, the one that thudded as heavily as her heart, stretched in her being with all the suppressed intentions she had yearned to let free for so many years.

It should not have felt so  _ good _ to stand among some of the most powerful and elite. It should not have filled her with elation to be saved by  _ Bellatrix _ . It should not have made her want to smirk to know that Draco, of all people, had leapt to tackle that wild hate spewing woman or that even now, while Hermione stared at the Dark Lord with wide eyes, Narcissa fussed with her clothing to make her look presentable in the face of madness.

She was beginning to love said madness.

“I hope you were properly soothed.”

Hermione would not have called Bellatrix possessive hold very soothing, but she had certainly felt… secure. Extremely secure. Secured even. Unwillingly secured.

“I feel disturbed, my Lord.” Hermione dropped her gaze to Dolores, who now stood trapped in the grip of invisible bonds and held wands.

“Ah, yes. This was meant to be a night of discovery and brotherhood. Instead, it shall turn into something more. Educational, mayhaps?”

He peered down at her with an emotion that was difficult for her to describe. She searched His eyes, His partially hidden face, but there was nothing but chilling depth to the red that peered at her. She felt vulnerable, exposed, naked, and powerless beneath His scrutiny and instinctively, like shaken prey, she found herself clutching Bellatrix hand within her own.

The older woman made a hissing sound of pleasure at that.

Draco broke from the crowd with a huff, his teeth on display as he sneered, “My Lord! Please, allow me to teach this woman a lesson. She attacked you!”

Narcissa didn’t bother adjusting Draco’s robes, but as she moved away from Hermione she did give a flick of her wand to mend his tattered tie.

“It was not me she was after,” Voldemort answered, curious. “Lucius.”

With his wand held at the throat of Dolores the man tilted his head, indicating that he was listening.

“I think it is time for a lesson. Please, the center floor. Draco, at my side now.”

Like an eager puppy Draco scurried to the Dark Lord’s side, his expression seemed strained, a mixture between excitement and nervous anticipation. Hermione knew how that felt, she was sure her own face reflected such things.

Bellatrix released her hand and instead took point behind her. Again she could feel the heat of her body, the way her fingertips danced across her exposed shoulders, and she shivered despite the angry heat that rolled--awakened and ready--through her body. What was going on with her? With this aggressive confusing… need.

The wizards half dragged half floated Umbridge forward until she was upon her scuffed boots right in front of Hermione. If Bellatrix hadn’t been at her back she might have tried to put more space between them. As it was, if she wanted to, she could have reached out and touched her. How disgusting. She was sure that if it weren’t for the silencing spell on Dolores tongue she might have flung spittle at her during her soundless screeching.

“She’s very upset.” Luna’s dreamy voice swept over her and she wasn’t the only one to turn and quirk a brow at her friend.

“Yes, we can see that.” Bellatrix snorted, her gaze narrowed but her tone a tad… what was it? Familiar? Friendly? Tolerant?

Either way, Luna seemed focused only on her. “The pixies are back, you know.”

“Luna, is now really the--”

“They’re a bit eager, but you’ll give them something soon I think.”

Draco lifted his wand, at the ready, but Voldemort’s hand stopped him from any spell flinging. It was just the fingertips and yet Draco made it look like the Dark Lord was resting His entire weight on the length of his arm.

“This is a lesson you’ve already learned.” He said, but his gaze was all for Hermione.

She swallowed nervously and refrained from answering while Luna rocked on her heels and Bellatrix toyed with the loose strands of her hair.

“Listen well, my friends.” Voldemort began, His voice loud and amplified throughout their space as a few weary witches and wizards moved closer. “Tonight we have a strand of poison. A witch without discipline, an disloyal dirtied traitor.”

The crowd held their collective breath and from them Hermione could sense a strange hunger, one that rubbed against her skin and made her twitch. She could feel that very same intensity at her back from Bellatrix, who panted lightly against her neck like a barely restrained beast.

“This woman claims to be an advocate for pure-blood progression. Yet, here, before you all, she has attempted to slay the gift I’ve given to you.”

With a dramatic sweep of His arm He motioned to Hermione, but she was frozen in place, held captive by the crowd’s attention and His own. 

“Lucius, was that spell meant to kill?”

It was a rhetorical question, they’d all her heard scream the incantation but he answered anyway-- “Yes, my Lord.”

“I did not expect such blatant disrespect this evening but that is not to say I am not prepared for it.”

Thicknesse stumbled forward, but didn’t dare approach the center circle where his associate remained trapped and surrounded. “My Lord, I am deeply sorry for this offense.”  

“As you should be.” He answered, bored. “However, I am merciful, aren’t I, Pius?”

“I…” He stuttered, swallowed thickly, and bowed his head, “Yes, yes of course, my Lord.”

“Then, I shall not spill this witches blood tonight. We must remain united in our cause, after all, and I believe some mistakes can be paid for with discipline.”

“Oh,” Luna said, “He means to teach you.”

Hermione might have asked her what she’d meant by that but all too soon Voldemort was motioning toward her.

“Ms. Granger.”

Hermione considered taking a step forward but thought better of it. She didn’t want to be any closer to Dolores than necessary even if that meant she remained under Bellatrix idle caress. “My Lord?”

“This woman has done you a great offense.”

“Yes, she tried to kill me.” Hermione replied, bitterly. “I’d say it’s a little more than great.”

From the crowd came a few deep chuckles.

“Ah, that she did, my dear.” Voldemort replied, “And for that she must be punished. Her attack against your name is much like an attack against my own.”

Hermione’s mouth felt dry and she found it difficult to respond. Luna did so for her--

“The mighty House of Granger will not stand for this offense.”

Hermione whipped her head to the side to stare at her friend with wide confused eyes.

Voldemort smiled, something entirely to pleased, ”Then she must be punished by the Head of House.”

With a soft squeak Hermione pointed to herself. “M-me, then? I… me?”

Events were moving to fast. She had questions, concerns--

“Yes. Swift discipline will lead to forgiveness. Pain will cleanse the blood that connects us all and erase our faults.”

The crowd stirred, awakened by what was clearly a spoken mantra by the Dark Lord. It wasn’t a phrase Hermione had ever heard before and it filled her with an impending dread. Pain would cleanse the blood? Would it really erase Dolores faults? Clear her name in the eyes of the Dark Lord?

“There is no salvation without pain, no forgiveness without paying us what is due. You will give her pain. That would please me and avenge our connected houses.”

Hermione licked her dry lips and tried to control her hands as they shook, moist with sweat. She felt confused, her mind somewhat clouded by the implied actions she was meant to take. She knew what he wanted, she hadn’t been called brilliant for a lack of obvious intellect. Yet, the conviction, the power, the true want to harm another… that had never been an aspect of her person. Survival, success,  _ praise _ … those were the things that had driven her. This, this thirst for madness, this new wicked sense of Iiving and structure, was not it.

And yet she’d never felt so… so on edge, so precariously balanced between power and uselessness. She stood before a moral conundrum. Harm this woman who had harmed her or forgive her without so much of a flick on the wrist. Would that make her weaker?

She had no desire to change places with Umbridge and if it boiled down to her… torture or Hermione’s survival well the answer was obvious. Dolores had brought this on herself after all, this building tension and cloud of hatred. Even before the end of the war she’d been twisted, constantly pushing for more control and power when she could barely fire off the simplest defensive spell.

She’d been such a piss-poor teacher, Umbridge. She’d been a piss-poor everything. Meanwhile, Hermione had had to struggle and scrap and fight with all her might while this woman had sat cozy and comfortable among her pure-blood brethren.

That didn’t matter now though, now that Hermione was… Firstborn.

Oh Merlin, she was starting to believe it too.

“Show time,” Luna whispered, her eyes alight with expectation, her smile oddly encouraging.

She wanted to tell her she couldn’t do this, and certainly she shouldn’t, but a part of her, that warm aggressive angry part of her was so very ready.

“You want to, don’t you?” Bellatrix whispered, her voice a playful lure against her ear, “And you know what He wants, don’t you? For you to learn? It’s the Cruciatus Curse He wants, girl. He needs to see it, your affinity for the Dark Arts.”

“This is a test?” Hermione whispered back, sure that the Dark Lord was distracted by Dolores ungraceful jerking in her invisible binds and the eager ripple of the crowd as they began to press forward. “I can’t. This isn’t… I’m not you.”

Bellatrix resulting laugh was anything but amusing but Hermione couldn’t fight off the soft sound she made when those lightly touching fingertips roughly grabbed her hips. “Silly girl, I think you are. Like me, that is. Yes, we’re all a little alike. Hungry, yearning. I can ease that, you know. Yes, pet, I know what it’s like. Like you’re  _ awake  _ and still asleep. This is the turning point, it’s time to wake up. You want this, His purpose, more than you realize. Do it, girl. The Cruciatus Curse, and you best mean it too.”

Her breath came in huge pants, her fear perhaps apparent. How this woman could whisper such truths in her ear in the most sensual tone was unreal, but it was more frightening how easily she’d known.

“I don’t need to read your mind to understand your… neglected needs, pet.”

“Stop it.”

“And this Dolores, is it? She’s caused you such pain. Even tried to bloody kill you, so sad that you won’t cleanse her of this silly idea you aren’t enough.”

Hermione sucked in a deep breath. It wasn't like Bellatrix hadn't tried the same thing, so long ago, and yet here they were to comfortable with one another, so comfortable. 

“That’s what she thinks. That’s what they think. Even now, maybe even I.. haha, yes, my little Firstborn. I truly want to court you, we have such  _ rich _ history after all, but there’s so much more you need to do before you truly earn your status among us.”

For a moment Bellatrix paused and Hermione held her breath, felt the ball of tight aggression in her chest flex experimentally as energy hummed in her veins and her mind instinctively began to go through the proper wand movements for the spell. She wouldn’t use it, no, she couldn’t but… it would help to remember.

“Bellatrix…” Hermione hissed, her skin to tight as the magic came to her subconscious call begging to be used.

“Hmm? You must mean it, pet. If you use it, you must mean it. I saw you earlier during your little duel, you know. So wild, I like that. It drew me in. You were  _ alive _ then, weren’t you?”

Hermione couldn’t resist, she answered without thought. “Yes. Yes….”

“Better you than her. You have potential, girl. She just tried to snuff it. Hah, the jealous little toad.”

With a snarl Hermione whipped her arm forward, her body going through the motions before her mind could catch up. “ _ Crucio!” _

She didn’t yell it, not really, but she said it with such impact and passion that it seemed like an impossibly loud scream to her. She hadn’t expected to  _ mean _ it. How does one purposely hurt another? But Bellatrix had spurred her forward, poking and prodding at  _ something _ in her being until the metaphorical leash had snapped and the magic had flown from her like a wild raging river. It slammed into her victim with enough force to knock her off her feet and she fell to the ground jerking and bucking about like a spear-run pig.

Such power, once forbidden, now felt liberating to use. It wasn’t perfect, if Dolores odd convulsions and drool were anything to go by, but it was… it was there, it was  _ real _ .

“Enough,” Bellatrix whispered softly, her voice an anchor among the storm of suddenly unleashed emotion.

“No. No.” Hermione mumbled, holding the curse--untrained and fluctuating in strength, she knew, but she just couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

Then a hand, one much stronger than her own, reached out and squeezed her wrist with enough force and intention that her hand was forced to pop open. Her wand clattered to the ground as she stood there, wheezing, watching as Dolores continued to jerk from the aftershocks and a lack of air from her silent screaming. Bellatrix held tight to her wrist, her cackle loud and vicious among the harsh silence around them but all too soon the rest of the crowd also began to whoop and holler, bloodthirsty and impassioned by Dolores torture.

“Good show!” Draco yelled as he pumped his fist in a childish manner.

Luna only gave a slight shake of her head as she bent over to retrieve Hermione’s wand from the floor but she could see a solemn smile on her face.

“And you thought she’d be to weak,” Voldemort commented casually.

“No, my Lord. That was Severus,” Lucius responded.

Brow slick with sweat Hermione took some time to look around the blurred and warped faces of the crowd. She spotted Thicknesse, who looked only mildly put-out by the entire affair, Pansy who smiled lopsidedly, as if she had been the one to gain the Dark Lord’s favor, and several other faces of amusement dotted about the crowd.

Yet, it was the Death Eaters, Voldemort’s personal elite, that seemed subdued by the affair. Or rather, introspective. They watched her with various expressions of curious interest as they whispered softly to one another. Even Greyback appeared thoughtful, with his lips turned in a hard frown and his gaze upon the still twitching Dolores. They weren't congratulating her successful use of the Dark Arts on someone 'deserving'. Hell, they weren’t even judging her performance. They were… staring, some at her but most at the woman she had tortured.

They truly weren't thinking about Hermione, oh no. They were thinking about how to take care of this… body, this thing she’d created, this broken woman--

“She’s still in there,” Bellatrix sung happily into her ear, “You’re a bit to uncontrolled to be breaking minds, don't you think?”

Yet, Bellatrix didn’t appear the least bit disappointed. Quite the opposite, in fact. “You couldn’t do it. Not all the way. You don’t know how, but I will teach you. Soon, you’ll understand.”

“I don’t want to have to do this again,” Hermione said solemnly, but her heart was still pounding and her fingers twitched as she missed the familiar weight of her wand--still held casually between Luna’s stroking fingertips.

“But you will, you don’t have a choice.”

“I can’t,” Hermione swallowed harshly, trying to beat back the raging emotion that screamed she could, “I’m not the sort to go about cursing innocent--”

A hiss went off in her ear and she shivered from the intensity of it, “That one, that one there is far from innocent.”

But did she deserve to be cursed so viciously?

“You did well, Ms. Granger,” Voldemort said, “But there is room for improvement.”

Hermione gave a shake of her head, reaching for the familiar numbness that normally kept her company but she couldn’t find it. It had been replaced, overwhelmed by heart thumping excitement and a sickening sense of vengeance.

“Now you must say it,” Bellatrix said as her tone quivered with something left unspoken, “Do it! Forgive her! You must complete this cycle.”

She didn’t understand it, Bellatrix’s hastily hissed words, and yet some part of her truly did.

“I forgive her,” Then after a pause Hermione hastily added, “My Lord.”

“Very good,” He murmured, “Remove her from the revel.”

Several wizards were quick to leap forward and do just that, eager to be seen as useful.

“As for you, Ms. Granger. One can tell that you have a way with the Dark Arts.”

“I wouldn't, ah, describe it as such.”

“Oh?” Voldemort asked, and if He had held any hair upon his person He might have quirked a brow in her direction.

“I’m just a… fast learner.”

“Adaptive.”

“Very,” Hermione sighed.

“Then you must be taught, but every lesson begins with a base and it is that base you are lacking.”

“My Lord?” Hermione asked, though she felt cautious as if she were stepping into yet another carefully prepared trap.

Luna leaned over to whisper, almost conspiratorially. “He means to say you need a professor.”

“I haven’t needed, truly needed, a professor since my fifth year, and even then--”

Her hiss was interrupted by a curious click of tongue against the back of teeth. She’d nearly forgotten the Dark Lord’s presence.

“T-that is to say, my Lord, that I feel there is very little I could learn from a professor at this time.”

She was no longer a child at Hogwarts and couldn’t see herself settled among the pure-blooded elite children there, pouring over newly published texts detailing the Dark Arts and other such advanced methods.

“It is not a traditional education I am offering.” He stepped forward and Bellatrix stepped back, moving to Hermione’s side in order to grip her arm none-to-gently and pull it toward the side, toward the approaching Voldemort.

“You must understand that some part of you, a very large part of you, is still very… filthy. Muddy, if you will.”

Hermione cringed as she twisted her lips into a scowl of indignation, “You said--”

“I know what I said, and it is all very true. However, you are still… imperfect. You must learn and understand the meaning of pure-blood tradition.”

His red gaze settled upon Luna, who gave a tilt of her head. “Ms. Lovegood will assist with that, as is her right.”

Luna gave a bob of her head, leaving little room for Hermione to answer her much needed questions, “Of course, of course.”

“As for the other half of your education, your  _ purpose _ as the first of our new order, I will see to that. But, to understand it properly, to truly embrace this knowledge, you must learn obedience. Humility is very important, Ms. Granger and with it comes clarity. Great Britain, it crumbled beneath my authority and threatened to spring into chaos. The rabble beyond our walls, those who do not understand the peace I have brought, fight to plunge our state back into terror and mismanagement. Yet, I still reign. Do you know how I mastered control of the entire pure-blood elite?”

Distress clogged her throat and words refused to slip past her lips. Instead, the most Hermione could do was shake her head as Bellatrix lifted her arm a bit higher and ripped asunder the thin cloth that had hidden her hideous scarring, exposing the undamaged forearm above it.

“Through pain, my dear. It’s a powerful motivator. They broke, each and every one, driven by fear or power but it was through pain that I cleansed them, controlled them, and once they were in pieces understanding dawned.”

With a sharp laugh He drove His hand forward, slapping it down upon Hermione’s forearm with a meaty startling sound. There was pain in the smack, though it was fleeting and immediately overrun by the bone chilling cold of Voldemort’s skin. He clutched her, squeezed her forearm as her eyes grew wide and her breath quickened and she swore the crowd could hear her strangled chirp. Yet, they didn’t look their way. They were ignored in favor of Thicknesse loud voice trying to apologize for Dolores behavior and Narcissa’s chilling tone as she began to direct the house-elves to clean the broken chandelier. They were in their own little island, somewhat hidden from prying eyes by the wall of Lucius turned back and Draco’s nervous shuffling. In fact, several of the Death Eaters had positioned themselves suspiciously around them.

Even Luna seemed to be perfectly placed, blocking the closest eyes from watching the Dark Lord squeeze her flesh.

“You too, must learn that though I am generous I must demand my pound of blood and flesh.”

She jerked back, startled by the sudden heat that seeped into her arm from Voldemort’s palm. Hotter and hotter His flesh felt until the heat turned from idle warmth to a sizzling burn. She refused to scream, couldn’t scream, as His voice combed across her mind like possessive exploring fingertips and her skin felt as if it were trying to rip off her body. Still, she couldn’t escape. Bellatrix was pressed close into her side, holding her still with an expression that seemed focused but calm. Out of the pair, Hermione hadn’t expected her to be so controlled.

While she was losing her mind.

The scream in her throat died there, swallowed as she sucked in a great gasp as Voldemort’s voice thundered across her mental landscape.

_ You will learn what it is to be cleansed. You will shed your Muggle-born ways and become nothing before you become  _ **_something_ ** _. It will be difficult, I presume, but the pain will break you of any filthy habits. You will take your suffering and know there is no relief without it. You will learn this aspect of your current curriculum among the many other tasks that I give you and when I ask for the curse again you will please me with your mastery. _

Then He was gone, leaving her mind that was once so full so painfully empty that she stumbled backwards. She wasn’t sure where she was, her sense of self felt fractured, wrapped around His words until all that she knew was that she  _ must _ learn what she could barely understand. Arms held her up, kept her from falling onto the floor, but she wasn’t sure who they belonged to. All that she knew was that the body at her back smelled good--like incense and parchment--and wasn’t currently hurting her.

Not like her arm did as it throbbed and pulsed with the lingering effects of fresh magic and a twisting serpentine shape.

“Bellatrix,” He spoke, His voice impossibly loud to Hermione, who still felt disorientated. “I want her taught properly. Starting immediately. I assume this won’t be difficult for you? Since you will be courting her? I will send for what you need.”

Then, after a pause, as Hermione struggled against the darkness that threatened to consume her she heard Him whisper--

“ _ Break her. _ ”


	8. practical lesson

Humming.

Soft. Nonsensical. Wordless.

It was humming that woke her, some painfully familiar ditty that made her think of serenely darkened skies and even darker curls. It gently stirred her consciousness, luring her toward a wakefulness she wasn’t entirely ready to embrace. Yet, the sound--it followed no rhythm, no easily strung together pattern--stimulated thought and sluggish awareness. It was  _wrong_ _,_ a song with no structure and her mind screamed as much but it soothed nonetheless, feeling incredibly  _right._

Then she jerked, suddenly awake, conscious,  _aware._

And terrified.

“Ah,” A voice whispered, the voice that had been humming, “You’re awake.”

“Luna?” Hermione croaked, her body unmoving and heavy among the various dark greens and dulled silvers that surrounded her. She was on a bed, that much of clear, and swaddled under a mountain of colored blankets that might have been suffocating if not for the warmth-trapping but oddly lightweight consistency of them. From the pillows to the mattress everything about the bedding screamed unnaturally comfortable. It was nearly enough to lull her back to sleep, humming loony or not.

If only her heart weren’t beating so viciously, so utterly ramped up and powered by rapidly returning memories and startling unfamiliarity.

“Mhm,” Luna hummed, her tone incredibly calm and casual, “It is I.”

“What,” Hermione said, her voice still burdened by drowsiness and disorientation, “Why?”

“Why?” Luna asked right before Hermione felt the bed dip slightly, now holding their combined weight, “Well, it would be rather irresponsible for it not to be me, don’t you think? You are an unmarried woman of high status, I suppose, and I am your companion.” Yet, there was an awkward pause in Luna’s speech, as if she were contemplating some major idea while Hermione struggled to comprehend her spoken gibberish. “Would you prefer someone else? Someone not me? I’m not able to shapeshift, unfortunately, but I suppose if you were uncomfortable--”

“Stop.” Hermione barked, her eyes tightly closed as her head swam with a thousand unconnected possibilities. “Stop. Stop.”

“Stop?”

“Stop.” Hermione needed a moment to breathe, to think, to recap--”I was at the revel.”

“Yes,” Luna confirmed.

“I am no longer at the revel?” Hermione asked tentatively, though she kept her eyes closed as she combed her scattered memories.

“Hm,” Luna began and Hermione could practically envision her rubbing her chin in thought, “You are still at the revel, I think. No, that isn’t the way to say it. Well, you aren’t  _home_ if that’s what you are asking.”

“You think I am still at the revel?” Hermione hissed, flabbergasted at the half-answer as she risked opening her eyes.

Luna was, indeed rubbing her chin, “Well, it is still in play. Though, we are not exactly there.”

Hermione took a deep breath, mostly to calm the building throb of her temple, “Where then are we exactly, Luna?”

“Malfoy Manor, upstairs to be specific, in a room that has been assigned to you.”

Hermione found her words caught in the throat as her brow furrowed and her arms twitched. Slowly, as her once numb body became controllable, she sat up with lips parted in utter disbelief. “I am--”

“Upstairs in a room--”

“--assigned to me, yes, I heard you the first time, Luna.” Hermione interrupted with a wave of her hand.

“Yet, you seem uncertain,” Luna said.

Hermione leaned forward, allowing the blanket to slip from her body in a green pool at her hips. Her dress had been replaced, removed in favor of a thick green house-robe that felt like heavenly clouds against her flesh. Unfortunately, the material did little to soothe that growing twist of knotting nerves carving through her belly.

“I am extremely uncertain, Luna.” Hermione found her voice steady and carefully neutral, an impressive feat honestly, considering the constant heavy thud of her heart against her chest. “It was not my intention to find myself in a room, in this manor.”

“You passed out,” Luna provided her with information happily, something that Hermione found slightly annoying considering her current predicament, but if the scowl that twisted up her lips weren’t a deterrent Hermione doubted her words would be, “Some assumed it was from too much Malfoy produced champagne. I believe it was the pixies, they drunk rather heavily from you. That will pass with time though, as you progress.”

“Luna,” Despite that twisting gut wrenching weight that crawled through her body Hermione’s voice remained very calm and even, despite seeming distant to her own ears. “What’s going on?”

“Time continues to march, it pauses for no witch or wizard. I’m not sure what’s going on at the revel anymore, I left quickly to tend to you, but I can tell you the immediate finalization of your trials.”

Hermione knew that Luna must understand that she was not speaking about the current activities of whatever party was still going strong below them and so she said nothing as she waited for her friend to speak further. Yet, something had changed within her, something that had Luna leaning forward with a slow smile that stretched her lips and made her gaze of silver churn with an emotion Hermione found difficult to describe. It’s intensity, it’s sudden joyous  _purity_ was enough to make her shrink back, cowed, and silent as softly whispered words washed over her with the power of finality.

“Hermione, my dear friend. As you must remember, you have been crowned the  _first_ of our Firstborn brethren. We no longer live in a world ruled by blood purity and unprogressive thinking. Though our actions are still dictated by the  _Old Ways_ and the traditions revived by our Lord, the power is returning to those who will rightfully claim it--the powerful.”

With parted lips Hermione took a deep breath as that heavy sensation in her belly became cold realization. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. It was in the fervent speech of her companion, in the near fanatical glint that sparkled among her normally dreamy gaze, and yet she could not find the courage to deny her words. She had been there, she had been  _The One_ _,_ she had received--

“L-luna,” Her words were strained, strangled by a soft gasp that banished coherent thought and replaced it with an escalating loop of mind-spun gibberish.

Luna’s initial response was but a smile and a gentle reach for her arm, the arm that held  _it_ _,_ the arm that Bellatrix had  _claimed_ right along with the Dark Lord.

 _Her_ Dark Lord.

“Shh, you mustn’t fear it, this new change. You  _need_ this, more than you perhaps realize.” Fingertips toyed with the edge of her sleeve before slowly, cautiously, as if Hermione were some precious doll, Luna began to roll it up and away.

She couldn’t look at it, not yet, not ever, she couldn’t bear the thought--

“It is painful at first. Tender, perhaps. You must be careful, always careful, to answer it’s call. He doesn’t like to be kept waiting, and this gift of His is not to be slighted.” Luna paused, if only to search her face, “Don’t look like that. It is a sign of power, a little masculine but lovely in its own way. It compliments your forearm muscle, perfect definition and all that, Hermione.”

She turned her head and swallowed harshly but couldn’t stop her heavy breathing.

“His magic is great. It pulls at you, you know,” Luna whispered, and her words might have been missed if Hermione’s senses hadn’t felt so hyper-active. Her arm twitched as Luna gently traced the wriggling tattoo that Hermione felt slither across her flesh with a heated pulse but Luna’s grip was strong.

“Don’t touch it,” Hermione hissed, feeling the tattoo react in a peculiar way when Luna applied pressure against her skin, “It feels…”

“Nice? Well, that’s a conditioned reaction. The heat and the tingles and all, it’s to inspire sensations of loyalty, pride and such.”

Hermione ground her teeth as her muscles flexed and finally she turned her head to stare at the mark that was making the rising panic that made her palms slick and her back wet with sweat twist into something darkly sweet and fluttering. She didn't’ like the way it pulsated, didn’t like the idle tug of something  _dark_ and wild mix so well with the presence of warmth that vibrated along her flesh--

Wait a minute.

“You speak as if--”

“I know? I do, that is. I know.” Luna interrupted with one last swipe of her thumb across Hermione’s dark mark before she allowed her arm to drop limply back onto her lap. “I have one.”

For a moment that felt like forever, Hermione let the silence stretch between them. Only the dulled and muffled sound of the revel below--which still thumped as if the earlier events had not taken place--filled the painfully static emptiness that prevailed between.

Then Hermione blurted out the first thing that came to mind— “You betrayed me!”

“It’s not so black and white.” Luna snorted, as if Hermione were some child to be chastised and not her peer.

But Hermione found it difficult to process those words. She gripped the blanket and bit her bottom lip, ignoring the taste of copper as perfect teeth pierced the weak flesh and blood filled her mouth.

“Luna you, you… you found me to take me to Him to... to enslave me…” She tried to wrap her mind around the realization and while Luna remained the perfect example of absolute control Hermione felt as if she were tearing apart at the seams. Oh, how she had longed to feel some companionship, to connect with an old ally who might understand and--

“You are not enslaved. Quite the opposite, actually. You certainly have more freedom than I, as His adopted--”

“Now I have this… this mark! And Bellatrix is hunting me, no doubt to ruin what’s left! Now, now I… and and what about Harry--”

Then she jerked, slammed back against the headboard of the pretty ordinate bed as Luna’s hand pressed against her mouth and silenced her words. The other woman was on top of her, straddling her hips, with blonde hair wild and eyes wide and unseeing. For a moment, Hermione thought of struggling, of doing anything to get this  _traitor_ off her, but her eyes made her pause… the way those pupils shrunk and the heavy breath that escaped Luna in great gasps.

So uncomposed, so  _positively terrified._

“You mustn't speak it.” She whispered, tone nearly sing-song and adorable in fashion if Luna hadn’t seemed so intense, so desperate, and feral in conveyance. “ _His_ name, the Dark Lord doesn’t like it. You’ll need to be taught. The past is the past, Hermione. Listen to me, listen!”

Luna’s desperate hiss captured Hermione’s full attention and she found herself nodding despite her captured head even as the ache of her back threatened to make her whimper.

“I miss him, Hermione. Desperately so. We all do, even Malfoy, to some degree. Yet, you mustn't speak of him--The Boy, Hermione. He-Who-Lived-But-Probably-Didn’t. I will protect you with  _every fiber of my being_ , but I cannot protect you from Him if He--”

Her breath caught and she turned away, her expression pained as she slowly removed her hand from Hermione’s mouth and tried to control her gasps. Hermione saw her throat constrict, could see the glistening edge of Luna’s normally glassy focus.

“Hermione, I am your friend, better known as your current companion. I am doing… what must be done to improve your existence. I couldn’t save him, I was too late, but I will save you.”

Then under her breath she heard Luna mutter— “I won’t fail again, I promised.”

Promised?  _Who?_

It was that sentence and that sentence alone that seemed to slowly settle Hermione’s pounding heart and the scathing words she wanted to say. Instead she remained sitting up and ignored the ache of her back as she watched Luna gather her raw emotion and return to that unsettlingly calm and dreamy state.

“I apologize, my friend. That was terribly rude of me.”

Of course, Luna would only be thinking of how polite and proper her manners had been after such a spat.

Hermione took a deep breath, then another, but when she opened her eyes she had some semblance of understanding. Out there, during the revel, with His gaze upon her, Luna had been insanely proud and ecstatic at her performance. While His attention and approval had been the only one that really mattered some part of her had enjoyed the looks of impressed disbelief on the pure-blood elite. She had proved to them, in many ways, that she could stand among them and hold her own. That her magic had never been something to ignore, to disregard.

She was not  _filthy._

There was no denying the part she had played in her surrender to the Dark Lord and His scheme. She had unwittingly become an important piece in a game she didn’t have the rules to and maybe Luna was to blame, but only a little. She was the one that had embraced the attention, the praise, the release of long denied power. And she wanted,  _wanted_ _,_ very badly to experience such freedom again.

_Needed._

“Luna, it’s all right. I apologize for my overreaction,” She answered carefully, picking her next words, “I… want this, I think. I want to… to…”

Do  _more_ than any other witch or wizard had ever done before.

It was more than just simple survival, more than moving through the days in a numb haze and being perfectly  _good._ And there was no denying that she was very good at being… well… good. She was a swot, a avid learner and a talented wizard. How could she return to her deadened existence after feeling so alive? After experiencing what it was like to be His verses just being Harry’s--

 _Harry, Harry, Harry--_ Her mind looped on the thought, but the guilt she expected to feel never came. Instead, a heavy lethargy settled over her limbs and her mind, which seemed to bounce about his name as if it were meaningless and too complex to comprehend at the same time, felt tired and foggy. She tried to remember where she’d been going with the line of thought but…

“Hermione,” A voice, Luna’s voice. It pulled her back, up from the depths of mind-cotton and back to the present.

“I, what? I felt...” She felt like she’d dozed off, like she’d daydreamed about a hundred things all while a gently whispered name turned to rubbish in her mind.

“Mm, I told you not to think about him, The Boy?”

Oh yes, of course. Could she have blamed her idle daydreaming on the mark as well?

“I have no idea what I’m doing.” Hermione admitted.

Luna wiggled a bit, reminding Hermione that another grown woman had made herself very comfortable upon her lap. “No worries, that’s what I’m here for. I am your companion after all. It was smart of me to claim the rights, don’t you think? Least you’d have Goyle Jr. perhaps, as your most faithful. He’s certainly not very good at magic, let alone something this important. A prat, some would call him, though Malfoy still seems to be fond--”

“Luna,” Hermione groaned, not quite prepared for another tangent when she was still gathering her wits. “Explain. Not about Goyle.  About the companion rights.”

With a tilted head, Luna spoke, her tone so very matter-of-fact, “I am your companion, your most trusted political counselor and confidant. It is my job to aid you in your transition from the mundane regularity of reality to the world of pure-blood elite society. I will provide you with a functional education and assist you with our traditions until you are of significant education to properly wield the power and rights of your house without immediate deference to myself...”

“My house,” That’s right, the Dark Lord had named her the first of the Granger line, “What does that mean exactly? My knowledge on house authority is rather…”

“Lacking, yes.” Luna confirmed, ignoring Hermione’s pout as she moved on, “Your house, the First and Noble House of Granger, is politically connected to the Powerful and Worshiped House of Slytherin, the Dark Lord's taken title. It packs a bit more punch than Riddle, though that’s the intention. You may find His influence rather convenient and a few extra galleons to fatten your accounts. His support and sponsorship will dictate how you run your house and in return you may find yourself… respected for His backing. Yet, your pure-blood etiquette must be improved to make you worthy.”

Hermione had a feeling the word Luna was really looking for might have been  _feared._

“And you?”

“My companion status also creates a binding political agreement to you. It is… the same, in many ways, I suppose. I am like a knight, bound to nobility. As you climb our hierarchy dictated by power I will also be seen as powerful. You are elevating my family house into a higher position and creating a stronger vote for yourself among the Inner Circle.”

But there was a pause, one where Luna gave a slow lick of her lips, an act Hermione would have thought sensual if not for the fact that Luna had done it.

“There are other things that I could do. Will do. But not yet, it isn’t time.”

Then, with a soft hum and a swish of her robes Luna swung herself off from Hermione and back her proper side of the bed, a graceful maneuver that somehow didn’t seem clunky or rumble her dress. Hermione found herself oddly missing the warmth of her thighs through the lightweight covers.

“Has that answered your questions?”

“Not nearly all of them,” Hermione answered petulantly, “What of Bellatrix?”

“You will be courted by her. It’s all very proper, the Lord is serious about the  _Old Ways_.”

Hermione hissed, “He told her to… to.”

“Train you in the basic Dark Arts. An honor, really.”

“You can’t be serious!”

Luna paused for a moment, if only to give Hermione time to cease her growling, “I am. She is a talented witch and seems very taken with you. The training will no doubt be difficult but the courting will be very appropriate.”

“He also said--”

“--pain, that you must learn pain. It helps to have a fundamental base to build our loyalty of the Dark Lord and the Dark Arts. She will be… thorough in that as well. You will find the suffering is not…”

Hermione opened her mouth to bark something at Luna but her friend seemed far away, as if she were trapped in some memory that made her fingers flex and her cheeks flushed.

“It’s...” She couldn’t finish and Hermione frowned at the unspoken implications.

“You’re speaking from experience again.”

Luna hesitated, but ultimately spoke in a soft and almost shy whisper. “I am.”

“Will you tell me, so that I can prepare?” Hermione had already decided that to judge her companion would be an awful waste of time. The only thing she could do now was to continue and to try and keep her sanity. Luna was not the only one to bow to Voldemort upon His rise to power to survive, just one of the first after the war. Something had changed in her, something that couldn't be touched or salvaged, something  _wicked_ that seemed tightly restrained as it swam side by side whatever twisted morals Luna had always fallen back on in her youth. The war had changed all of them, but sometimes, sometimes… the experience was too private, too intimate, when someone was broken.

“I cannot. Prepare you, that is. Perhaps, one day I will… share my experience, but it is different for everyone. When I was in the cell, waiting, those first few horrendous hours after dawn, I had asked him--Draco--and he told me the same. Animals of war, animals of habit, need a firm and consistent understanding of their place until it becomes  _truth_ and other lines of thought cannot exist alongside it.”

Hermione reached out a hand to lightly touch the top of Luna’s own, earning a small distant smile in the process

“I do not wish to ever return to that place, the time of my…  _awakening.”_

Then she took a deep shaky breath, as if frightened and yet impassioned--” And I won’t ever need to.”

 

\--------------------------------------

 

After their last exchanged words silence fell upon them again, something heavy with the promise of changing times and yet comfortable all the same. After some time, with only Luna’s warm hand between her own and their soft thoughtful breathing to fill the silence, Luna addressed her again if only to tell her that for the foreseeable future the manor was to be her home.

“But what of my things? My job?”

“I will worry about your things, Hermione. But, the job, well…” Luna rose from the bed to move toward the massive vanity against the wall, her speech incomplete as she lapsed into quiet mumbles directed toward the mirror there. It was enough to cause Hermione to frown, though it did give her time to examine the room she’d been unwittingly assigned. Other than the massive bed and its current color scheme the rest of the space remained awkwardly bland. The vanity, with its old and carved wood and massive reflective glass seemed the only structure in the space with a bit of personality. It was clearly a guest room and she supposed, if this were to be her own space in the manor, it would need a more personal touch.

Maybe some red. Especially some red.

“Luna?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, the job. I don’t suppose you’ll be able to keep it. Not now with so much to learn.”

Perhaps it was Hermione’s pale face or her open mouthed expression but Luna seemed quick to elaborate--”That is to say you will have a job. Whatever our Lord asks of you. He is not in the habit of creating worthless pure-blood socialites. There will be meaning to your education. Becoming a socialite will merely be a perk of that.”

St. Mungo’s hadn’t been her initial career destination. It wasn’t some illustrious magnificent responsibility, but it had been her  **own** , something she’d picked by a combination of fate and understanding. To have that choice ripped away from her seemed terribly unfair, but what use did fairness have in the presence of His reign?

“Is it difficult to come to terms with?”

Though Hermione felt petulant and sullen she managed a cordial reply, “It wasn’t exactly a glamorous position, but it was my position. I earned that spot and the old slag behind the desk was finally giving me a semblance of respect.”

If Luna noticed her pouting she didn’t comment, “The role He will no doubt prepare you for will be far more rewarding, I’m sure. My own role--”

“And what is it that you do, exactly?” Hermione interrupted, lips twisted in irritation and eyes narrowed.

“Simple work, for the Ministry."

Silence was Hermione’s initial response as she worked through a sudden onslaught of awkwardly awakened emotion. Surprise, irritation, envy, pride--

“I’m the current Junior Assistant to the Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Though, I hope to someday be more than just an elevated errand girl.”

With a shake of her head Hermione pushed aside the jumbled mess of emotions that threatened to claim her sensibilities. “He allowed you to work there? Even though…

“It’s easier to control your enemies if you’ve made them fat and content in the den of your allies.” Luna turned from the mirror then to smile with a weary sort of acceptance, “Perhaps you’ll end up there too, someday soon, in that very same den unsure about whether you are still wild or tamed.”

Slowly Hermione drew her legs up from under the sheets, if only to swing them off the bed and rest her wriggling toes among the soft plush cream colored carpet. “How ominous of you to say, Luna.”

“It’s all intrigue, in the end. However, I am rather serious about the den. There is something you must know about this lifestyle, so do keep it in mind. You see, Hermione, you may have become a target in the last few hours.”

Hermione gave an understanding nod, despite her furrowed brow. That much was easily assumed, considering who had dangled her around in the party parlor just moments ago. Umbridge had already tried to assert her command and ‘purity’ inspired dominance over her but she would bow for no toad.

“Our peers, they will be the hardest to convince of this new status, that He finds you worthy enough to elevate may sound laughable to most. The den of snakes you’ll traverse--ah, with me at your side, of course, don’t look so concerned--are only cowed, not calmed.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must be more than His Golden One. You must be cunning, sly, clever--”

“A Slytherin?” Hermione blurted out in disbelief.

“His Slytherin.”

“I’m a Gryffindor, that is an absolutely impossible and preposterous idea--”

Luna held up a hand, effectively silencing Hermione with her amused smile and quirked brow-- “You are more than just a sorted individual. We all have a little bit of  _some_ other house within us.

“And if I had to guess that  _something other_ would be Ravenclaw for sure.”

“Perhaps, in another world, you may have been given the luxury of thinking such. Do be brave, Hermione. You can’t be anything but, yet our schoolyard notions of nobility and courage are rather piss-poor in comparison to the games these adults tend to play.”

Then a pause came in their conversation as Hermione clenched and unclenched her hands.

“Ah, language. Sorry, a lady mustn't sound so roguish.”

“That’s the last thing I’m concerned about, Luna.”

With an idle shrug, she continued, “Our peers must be dominated. Shown their place. Fear and hesitation are only a weakness here. You will receive an invitation to a club of sorts and you must become the  _queen_ of the people that frequent it. Else, they will do all that they can to better themselves in the eyes of those that truly matter.”

She took a fleeting breath, “The Dark Lord?”

“He will not accept failure, even in this. You are at the top, you know, a literal lioness in every sense in a world soon to be shaped by the dominance of power instead of only blood. It is important to claim your allies wisely and control them thoroughly. After all, I’m certain that's what He did.”

And He had won, had He not?

“I must be smarter, more cunning, and three steps ahead of my competition.”

“To stomp out challenge and disorder among our generation,” Luna answered plainly. “He would be impressed with the initiative. She would be too.

“I.. I have no desire to… impress someone like her. If you are speaking of You-Know-Who.”

The usage of an old phrase upon a new face was enough to make Luna pause before her gentle laughter, so musical and soothing, rang about the space. “Lady Black is not nearly as frightening as our Lord, though I understand your hesitation.”

“I don’t suspect she has been carving into any other women and leaving irreplaceable scars these days?” Hermione grumbled bitterly.

“No, I suspect she only likes to mark those she wishes to claim.”

There was something eerie about Luna’s sudden softness, something that reminded Hermione that it was very possible Luna had experienced something as horrific as Hermione’s torture so long ago beneath the woman who was meant to romance her.

“But worry not,” Luna said, recovering quickly from a memory Hermione may never be truly aware of, “She will obey our Lord. Your cultivation is first, your possible union second.”

“That woman is madness and fire. There can be no union, not with her.” Hermione’s voice shook, betraying her panic, her apprehension.

“She is controllable, just like any other witch or wizard.” Luna’s statement was enough to draw Hermione’s gaze from her trembling hands to the introspective expression her friend wore.

“What?”

“Pay attention, Hermione. To the lessons. Then, you’ll understand. This is just another class and you need to earn the highest marks. Your power, your very life, depends on that. I look forward to seeing you use that big brain, you are the brightest witch of our age and all that.”

“I’m really starting to regret that title.” Considering how much trouble it had gotten her in.

Luna gave her a beaming smile before she made an idle motion with her hand. “It’s time. She’s waiting. I’ll be here afterwards, when you return. I need to settle your accounts and accept the Dark Lord’s gracious sponsorship tithe.”

Thoughtlessly Hermione stood, her fingers set to grasp the green robe tightly around her form as she realized she didn’t have a stitch of clothing on otherwise. Yet another mystery she’d need to ask Luna about but there seemed more pressing matters to attend to.

“She’s waiting? And… and you have access to my accounts?” Hermione glanced around the room but failed to find anything to wear beneath the robe. Perhaps the nearby closet?

“Lady Black, Hermione. Or Madam Black, if you prefer. And of course, I do, I am your companion after all. My rights include a bit of leeway when it comes to the management of your financial obligations. It’s something I find I will enjoy. The management, that is, not the galleons. I’m certain you’ve kept well organized parchment dictating your financial history and what not. It’ll make this task rather simple for me. The shopping, though I suppose the tithe disbursement too.”

“Shopping? Disbursement? Slow down, Luna.” Hermione hissed, irritated by the lack of clothing in the closet as well, a closet that seemed suspiciously empty though she supposed that was a little natural if this was in fact a guest room. Yet, where was her dress? Her heels? Her clutch? Her--

“My wand, Luna?”

“You won’t need it, not for this lesson. Our Lord has it.”

The world spun for a moment, tilted as if she were floating off the ground despite the firm plant of her well-cared for feet upon the ground.

“H-he has my wand?”

“Yes, it is to be received upon the completion of your… ceremony. She should be here soon to take you to it. Oh, that reminds me, you’ll need a new familiar and your first house-elf, though I expect the latter to be a gift to you. The Inner Circle will be drooling at the chance to get in your good graces.  Shame about the former, though. I really wish I’d been able to locate Crookshanks while you were sleeping. He can’t possibly still be at the Burrow remains.”

She swallowed harshly, trying to keep the rising panic from bubbling past her throat in a broken cackle. There was no need for the intensity of her terror but the very idea that Lord Voldemort had  _her_ wand in His possession doing who knew what to the only connection holding her to this world was difficult to comprehend. A portion of her, illogical and driven by awakened emotion, screamed that He meant to destroy it. Though the larger portion, the analytical pragmatic portion, only confirmed that doing such would mean a waste of tonight. Deep within, though she found it much easier to deny, she understood Voldemort’s play at power more than she wanted to admit. The pure-blood line, in the six years after the war, was too heavily intertwined to generate fresh offspring--or soldiers, if her idle understanding of Voldemort was to be taken into account--with actual potential. They needed new bodies to brainwash, new mouths to flap incessantly about His perfect order among the Hogwart’s corridors. The more families grandfathered into the cause the more slaves He’d have to peddle, wasn’t that right? And wasn’t she just another slave? A new body to be bred and controlled in exchange for the fallacy of power, security, and safety?

Yet, if that were really the case then why had He allowed Bellatrix of all people to court her? Especially considering the impossibility of their union producing faithful wriggling screeching bodies for His glory? Unless, unless there was a way for such a union to produce offspring? Unless, this was more than just finding new wombs among Muggle-borns and more about finding power to warp and twist?

She was not a woman so arrogant she considered herself particularly powerful. Talented, yes, and skilled to be sure if her duel with Malfoy, Parkinson, and Luna was anything to go by but did He really think her potential ran so deep that it demanded His personal investment and interest?

Luna continued to prattle on though Hermione had lost track of the words, even as she mentioned possible names for a house-elf Hermione in no way wanted. She needed more information, for the security of her future and for a greater understanding of what was best to do. The wizarding world, her peers, Voldemort, and even Bellatrix all wanted a piece of her for some unfathomable reason and she needed to know what that reason was.

So, she needed to move forward, fearlessly. She could do it. Somehow, she could become the snake and the lion and if by chance she learned the depths of what Dumbledore claimed to be the darkest magical forces on the planet then wouldn’t bowing before the Dark Lord in exchange for absolute peace be worth it?

What was she thinking? What was she… doing?

“Luna,” Hermione croaked. “My clothes?”

“You won’t need them for the ceremony.”

“The what now? And what do you mean I won’t need them--”

“It’s exactly what she means, pet. You won’t need them. Not for what I intend to do to you.”

Hermione jerked, stumbling backwards until she hit the opposite wall from the door. Instinctively her fingers twitched and her hand reached within her robe--painfully reminding her that she had nothing on beneath it--to draw her wand. Yet, the familiar comfort of wood didn’t reach her.

“Bloody hell, can’t you knock?” Hermione snarled, her lips twisted up in a sneer that may have made even Lucius proud had he seen the simmering irritation she managed to pour into the look.

“Language, Ms. Granger,” Bellatrix and Luna managed to say, at the same time, before the former tossed Luna a mild look of exasperation. “I’m here to escort you, love. As is proper, and all that.”

“There is nothing proper about this,” Hermione gestured wildly to her current clothing, buckled tightly upon her frame.

“Nonsense.” Bellatrix purred and for a moment Hermione froze, pinned down by the rolling storms that passed through the impossibly black depths of the gaze that combed her. Her heart sped, it’s heavy thump enough to force Hermione to draw in a shuddering breath.

“I’m not snogging you yet, you know!” She barked.

“Yet?” Bellatrix said, head tilted ever so slightly, as if Hermione were some curious prey she’d managed to corner.

“I mean… ah, shite.”

“Language,” Luna said again, all sing-song and smiling before, with an exaggerated sigh, she began to gently maneuver Hermione from her plastered position against the wall and toward the door. Closer to Bellatrix. Closer to whatever they were meant to do tonight without the use of proper attire. “I need to get started on your accounts, Hermione. How about Mr. Winkles for your house-elf’s name?”

Hermione sucked in great lungfuls of air as Bellatrix’s lips split into a wicked grin of excitement, a grin that was enough to make unwanted flutters stir tendrils of warmth within her belly, “I… I certainly don’t need a house-elf.”

“It’s improper for a young woman to be without a house-elf. Someone in your standing, my wriggling pet, must be attended to. My Lord would die of displeasure to know you weren’t already assigned to one.” Bellatrix offered, rather unhelpfully.

If she hadn’t felt as stiff as a board she might have stomped her foot like a child. Instead, she only shyly stood beside this woman, her torturer turned escort. How surreal, how incredibly surreal.

“We’ll apparate and allow Ms. Lovegood to get to it.” Bellatrix lifted a hand, the palm perfectly upturned in her direction, an offering with heavier implications than Hermione could ever realize.

And yet, she took it anyway.

 

\---------------------------

 

Hermione was thankful that they would not need to traverse the exceedingly large and labyrinthine manor while she had nothing but a thin--albeit very comfortable--robe to protect her dignity. What she was not thankful for was the immensely cold, dank, and  _dark_ space they currently inhabited.

What she’d initially confused for as the Malfoy dungeons--a space that she would have fought tooth and nail to remove herself from--was an elaborately decorated parlor. The walls were covered in the usual forest green she’d seen in her current dwelling, but added to that was an interesting collection of mounted shelves which kept elevated and safe a few various knickknacks that seemed benign in nature. There was a glittering golden cup, a slender red-filled vial, a book that seemed bound in peach colored leathers, and other items whose visage seemed warped due to the twisting shadows in the poor but purposeful lighting provided by green-flamed lanterns placed strategically along the walls. It wasn’t enough to make out the finer details of her space--was that a liquor cabinet against the wall? A stuffed werewolf against the corner? --but it was more than enough to display the most frightening aspects of the room.

There, at the center of the space stood a circle of reflective glossy black flooring. It was suspiciously clear of the soft and yet still warmth lacking carpet that she currently stood upon. Above the glossy ground hung several silver colored chains, still and certainly imposing as the flickering flames reflected bright glimmers back in her direction. It was enough to make her heart skip a beat and certainly enough for her eyes to grow somewhat wide as the unspoken meaning of their presence slipped across her mind unbidden. The rest of the room seemed out of place in comparison, to false and cozy while the chains hung with purpose and oozed intent.

Certainly, they could have also been an out of place statement of taste but she reckoned the Dark Lord did nothing, even decorate, without purpose driving the decision.

Her mouth was open, dry, her tongue curled as her chest ached with need for oxygen but she’d forgotten how to breath when she saw those chains, when she understood what was to come. No amount of chipper discussion from Luna could have prepared her for this, this supposed ceremony that could be nothing more than an excuse to usher forth her agony.

“And I will have it, your agony, girl.” His voice hissed, so chilling and indifferent and perfectly _aware_ of her thoughts that it was startling, “You will give it to me, even if I must, at first, take it.”

She swallowed harshly and tried to calm the tremble that infested her arms as she combed the space for His presence. Yet, she could see little beyond her immediate position. Only the circle was suspiciously illuminated and the items closest to it.

“My Lord, “Bellatrix chirped with glee, a hand at the small of Hermione’s back--heavy, controlling, warm.

How could she sound so happy? So disgustingly pleased?

“Well,” He said, “Get on with it.”

Without hesitation Bellatrix gave her a shove, nothing to malicious but more than enough to get Hermione’s heavy feet moving toward the circle. The circle that seemed to grow impossibly wide as the carpet literally recoiled from the touch of the oozing black floor. It rolled out to greet her, to embrace her toes with its chilling bite and draw from her a wince as she stepped fully upon it. Now that it seemed to control most of the room she noticed the center of the circle radiated a near unnaturally sort of cold. She could see her breath form with each nervous pant and feel her skin crawl with revulsion as the bitterness in the space coated her flesh.

Her words were frozen in her throat, proclamations of ‘I can’t’ and ‘This isn’t right’ remained trapped and strangled. The idea of screeching in indignation, of yelling stop, never passed her mind, but a portion of her greatly wanted a fight nonetheless.

Was it cowardice or bravery that kept her moving forward? That allowed her to mindlessly raise her hands above her head when commanded by Bellatrix? Was it courageous to face one’s trails without resistance? Or was she giving into a power that was beyond her comprehension?

“You are right on all accounts,” The hiss came from her left, so close, so impossibly close to her ear and yet she did not see Him, only Bellatrix, who carefully dangled the enchanted chains near her wrists and watched them like a dutiful caretaker as the curled around her flesh, “Even if you don’t understand exactly how.”

 _Get out of my head,_ she thought,  _give me this privacy._

She thought she heard gentle laughter, the sound of the amused and interested.

_There is no privacy, not with me and no, I will not grant you the illusion of such. Not you, my precious Golden Girl. You, more than anyone else, should not be degraded with such coddling._

She jerked from the powerful ring of His voice, from the playful courteous allure of His words. It did nothing to alleviate her fear, though she knew that had never been His intention. Perhaps, He took pleasure in the harsh thud of her heart, in the rush of her blood that did little to keep her warm against the bite of His cold. She could practically feel the truth of His speech, knew from that moment onward that no thoughts were truly safe from His touch, from His introspection, and to make her think otherwise would have…

It would have only made her weaker.

 _And I must have my weapon sharp._  

Hermione gasped as Bellatrix moved suddenly, as she hooked her wicked fingers into the expensive but otherwise impractical cloth that covered her body and tore it from her person like a child destroying a simple piece of flimsy parchment. Her smile never left her lips--if anything she grinned even more, splitting her beautiful face, and turning it into something  _hungry_ and  _monstrous--_ as her gaze wandered across her skin with all the appreciation of a person accessing a blank canvas.

If she’d had the courage to yell and the ability to cover her body she might have. As it was she was afforded neither, knowing that any sound she made might have egged on her company and that her arms were still strung up above her body. She could have lifted her legs, might have even, but that would have painted a rather foolish picture of her person and the Dark Lord  _was_ somewhere in the room, she was certain of that.

She would not look like a fool in front of Him.

So instead she hissed, allowed her lips to twist into a sneer befitting the inner turmoil and rage she felt. She was not ashamed of her body--she had aged well, a woman of war-toned muscle and gold dusted skin from various ventures in the sun. If only her nipples had not hardened, puckered from the invasive cold, on her modest chest. Perhaps, they would not have drawn attention there, considering how long Bellatrix gaze seemed to linger--which only irritated her further considering the way she was currently on display.

They remained like that for a moment, Hermione nude as the day she’d been born, and Bellatrix whose eyes had darkened to a murky black with an emotion that seemed indescribable to Hermione. She shivered then, disquieted by the silence--for even the Dark Lord seemed eerily absent--as Bellatrix combing gaze moved from her clenching belly past her breast and toward...

Bellatrix drew in a breath, something akin to a soft hiss, as her eyes scanned the Dark Mark before landed upon the scarred flesh that spelled out that despicable word-- _Mudblood._

Yet, who would dare call her such a thing now?

Still, she stared and Hermione, feeling haughty--or perhaps dizzy from the overwhelming need to move forward from Bellatrix unending scrutiny, snarled out a-- “You did that to me. Do you remember? You wicked thing, do you?”

For a moment, Hermione swore she saw Bellatrix shudder, though that was an impossibility Hermione refused to fathom. She doubted Bellatrix felt much beyond her constant state of buzzing ferality. Bloodlust, perhaps, mania certainly and so many other aggressive powerful uncontrolled things but never remorse, never guilt.

And she was right, it was not guilt that Bellatrix shook with.

No, when Bellatrix finally lifted her eyes back to Hermione’s face what she saw shimmering there was far too frightening to be anything so simplistic. It was a tempest there, some twisting storm that made the shadows of her gaze all the darker. That shaking pupil, so dilated and focused, seemed filled to the brim with  _need_. She could feel it, practically drown in it, the intensity of that one look, the raw refusal to taper or control the crafted want for possession there. It was all so very terrifying, so incredibly  _real._

“I did,” Bellatrix gave a slow lick of her bottom lip and Hermione thought she had no right to make the act look so effortlessly sensual, “And I remember. Oh yes, I constantly remember.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to shudder, to tremble in understanding that had nothing to do with the terror she should have felt and everything to do with an odd elation.

 _Yes,_ some part of her, some thumping  _hot_ part of her thought,  _let her remember._

She wanted to be anywhere else so that she could think, so that she could push down this craving that clawed at her belly and made her feel flushed. She liked the look she inspired, liked that Bellatrix seemed so completely consumed by a flame created by herself. Her torture, how she’d writhed and screamed and cried, seemed so far away and warped. Bellatrix made her feel like they’d done something horribly unspeakable that night in the manor. Something that had gone beyond the pain-filled interrogation and had marked her just as much as she herself had been.

She needed time to understand, to look back at that moment and wonder how tightly this odd bond between them could wrap--

“It’s time to shed your worthless skin, I shall kill something in you and replace it with something stronger. Do not disappoint, Granger.” His voice returned, strong and unforgettable and enough to break the tension that had consumed them. Instantly Bellatrix resumed her thoughtful detached examination and with only an idle--and extremely inappropriate--tug to Hermione’s soft embarrassingly well managed pubic hair she twisted around to bow deeply to the writhing darkness of the outer shadows.

“Begin.”

With a roll of her shoulders Bellatrix turned to face her, her eyes alight with an eagerness Hermione was familiar with. She tried to keep her expression of frustration, tried to summon up some semblance of loathing, but she was wrapped in the embrace of anxiety and could think of nothing more than how Bellatrix planned to accomplish her task.

She didn’t have to wait long and with a flick of her wrist Bellatrix summoned a whip from seemingly thin air. It looked like the normal affair, from its corded handle all the way to the tip, and Hermione had to doubt whether it would cause her pain, the type of pain He seemed to demand she experience and lose herself to. It just looked so mundane, so Muggle.

“Surprised?” Bellatrix asked, one brow quirked, as if Hermione’s thoughts had been telegraphed. Perhaps, they had been. “Don’t be. I’m rather good at what I do, pet. I’d say that rather soon you won’t have the bloody ability to overthink my tools of choice. Shame really, it would have been nice to have Lucius here to confirm my prowess. The last wanker we inducted had a nice audience to judge his performance. All his little screams and sobs on display. You're bloody lucky, my pet.”

“Bellatrix, language.”

“Ah, sorry, my Lord.”

Then in a motion of smooth grace Bellatrix pulled back her arm and swung it forward.

Hermione heard the snap of it against her flesh before she registered the pain. It ebbed out slowly, like building ripples from a disturbed pond, but all too soon it collided with her person as an unbearable searing sting that came from the place where she’d been struck--right above her belly button, if she’d been aware enough to guess. She jerked and sucked in a deep breath, her eyes wide as the first strike sung through her. Instead of just one area humming from the pain the bulk of her upper torso felt attacked. By the time the pain had subsided Hermione swore she’d been hit with something more than just a whip.

“Enchanted,” Bellatrix sniffed.

Of course.

She was struck again and this time there was no shock nor confusion to soften her reaction. She jerked in the chains and groaned, unable to properly decide where the pain had originated from as it spread throughout her entire being. It felt like she was being bitten, like her skin was carefully plucked and harshly pinched away from her person before being allowed to snap back. Unbearable, it felt unbearable, but worse than that it was unpredictable.

Especially when Bellatrix snapped it against her thigh.

“Gah!” She cried out, spittle flying, as the pain from the second blow refused to fade. If anything, the third blow only fed it further, pushing out tongues of growing agony to other portions of her body left unaffected. Through her blurry vision, she could see Bellatrix lips twitch, as if she were repressing some pleased and lazy smile.

 _Fuck you,_ her mind hissed, desperate and strained under the pain.

 _Not yet,_ Bellatrix purred back, her voice among her mind perfectly settled and content, like warmed honey and comfortable promises.

And she couldn’t  _push her out._

So, she was struck again, and again, though the delay between the punishment grew shorter and shorter. Hermione’s screams grew loud, her voice hoarse, as her limbs jerked against her will and her chest heaved from a lack of proper oxygen. She could see no welts upon her person but her mind screamed that they were there. Across her thighs, her stomach, her shoulders, her breasts--everywhere Bellatrix choose to shower with her whip would undoubtedly become bruised and ruined.

Yet, her skin remained whole. Red and patchy, yes. Slick with sweat and flushed as the blood in her veins desperately moved along, certainly. But there was no blood to wet her skin, no proof to her destruction, only her sounds of despair and the pressure in her skull.

Her thoughts came in random bursts, disrupted by each flick of the whip until she could only think of the ‘whys’ while her mentality lost the ability to understand ‘how’.

 _You must know pain,_ His voice whispered, or was it Bellatrix? They were the same, one and whole, indistinguishable among the sea of torment,  _you must know it, twist it, understand it. Let it cleanse you of your crimes against me, of the guilt that clings to your flesh for those who are meaningless._

The most she could muster was,  _wHy?_

_You cannot humble yourself, cannot learn, without it. There can be no distractions, no doubts._

_No nO No--_ Her mind struggled, found the idea ridiculous. She could be humble, would be humble, without it.

 _You must obey. Must shed your ideals. Everything you know, everything you were taught--_ The voice hissed, angry and displeased as the pain increased. Images flickered by her vision, cracked phantom pictures of Ronald, of Harry, of Dumbledore. She heard him speak, or was it them speak? They had merged into one being, one horrific cluster of man and beard that reached out for a piece of lemon colored candy. They spoke at length about magic, about the light, about the Dark Lord--No, Miss Granger, the cluster-vision chastised, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named--about Harry’s importance and destiny, about sacrificing her personal welfare for that of the  _Chosen One_ , about categorizing an entire group of people--Those evil Slytherins, Miss Granger, watch out for them--and so much more. So so much more that had been ingrained in her person since childhood and just too hard to let go.

_This silly sense of morals, this ignorant concept of ‘light’ and ‘dark’... even this prejudice understanding of magic and alignment. Power is power, even now you can feel it, the power I have over you._

She could feel it in each strike, in each shake of her tired muscles.

_But it is not exclusive, our exchange. I will share with you, soon. I can feel it, your understanding. They left you weak and alone, I will make you strong in their absence._

Something in her snarled, some already broken crazed piece.

_You reject this thought. You don’t believe me? Tell me why, girl. You cannot hide from me._

Not like how she’d hid from herself. His question confused her addled mind, rattled about her mentality until the metaphorical landscape of her trembling mentality shook with explosive anger.

 _You?_ _ **YoU?**_   _How, how can you help me? How can you make me something else? They listen to you, but why? A half-blood, the false lord of pure-blood activism when the blood in your veins is as meaningless as the magic most of them hold. They don’t deserve it, this gift, my gift, this magic! They waste it, take it for granted, when I have struggled and still lack recognition. I am more powerful than the bulk of them. Me!_ _ **ME!**_ _I am poWerFUl and they are the garbage, fat content with mediocrity. Now I must suffer, bow, as they toy with me over_ _ **bLoOd.**_   _I am more than this, than **tHeM!**_ _Those filthy wizards and witches with_ _ **tHeIr muDdy BLOOD!**_

The voice in her mind raged, spoke with crazed tones that seemed so like her and yet not. It growled and screeched, petulant and disgusted. It could not have been her, that broken rolling yell, and yet it shook her so powerfully, sung through her mind with all the power of her starving soul. She hissed and jerked, shaking her head as Bellatrix paused in her whipping--something had burst, she could hear something shatter as wood cracked and clattered to the widespread black floor, had she distracted her? Startled her? --but it was only so that she could move as the tongue of agony struck the side of her hip.

The voice in her mind, the one that didn’t seethe and snarl in her tones, spoke was more-- _Then you understand it has nothing to do with blood, don’t you?_

She gasped and arched her back, felt the whip smack its tip across her left arse cheek but… but something was different. The pain was still there, still overwhelming, but something was  **different.**

_They are a filthy lot, the pure-blood elite. Manipulated easily enough by their precious traditions, traditions I now twist and recreate to keep them safe and satisfied, but it’s power they fear and covet, power they respect. It is with power that I now rule them. No creature, pure-blood or otherwise, deserves life unless they earn it and I am sure they've realized that now. They’re all trash, yes even you, girl, until they are useful. Even your beloved Dumbledore was fond of his pawns, using anyone and anything to achieve his machinations so long as they were competent… smart… Powerful--_

Another strike, this one across the small of her back, but there was no scream this time, just a sharp intake of breath as the pain blossomed, lingered, and left her skin feeling itchy and tight. Tingling…

_You’re crossing the threshold, aren’t you? Finally understanding what I mean? The worthy ones understand this lesson, the lesson that only power can create a god. That intention is what directs our fears and indirectly our classification of magic. The powerful are dark, the weak and controllable are light. Blood can create very little, Squibs maybe, and blood-locked curses, but they do not dictate much other than political sway when everything else is stripped away._

The whip struck her right arse cheek and this time she let loose a strangled cry of confusion. The pain was still all consuming, still barely tolerable, and yet she craved the touch of the whip more than she did His words, His truth. Each searing strike left behind an odd void in her being, as if one more hit would banish away her growing sense of guilt, of vulnerability, of helplessness--no, she was vulnerable yes, but not helpless. Yet the shame seemed so strong now, now that she was learning and eager. She  _craved_ His gospel with a fervent greed she was starting to feel with her body. The next time the whip struck her she knew something had changed, something was breaking, something that trembled under the vibrations of her bouncing flesh and heaving chest.

_In the world I wish to create, power will dictate the hierarchy. It will start with the blood of the worthy, as blood rules the minds of those too small to care for themselves, but with each new figure of power we will gain new elevated beings of blood and new rules to govern it._

Until there was nothing left of the old ideals where blood status was everything. Until even the haughtiest pure-bloods found themselves at the bottom of the pecking order due to a lack of diligence and practice. Ability, skill, talent, this would drive their goals and actions and while Muggles would always, unfortunately, be at the bottom of such a world they would no longer be so unfairly divided from the pure-bloods that had put them there.

 _Yes…_ her mind whispered, but she wasn’t sure if it was due to Voldemort’s proclamation or because… because Bellatrix was hitting her just  _right._ Her body was singing, throbbing to the beat of Bellatrix whip in a manner that defied logical explanation. Her nerves, raw and sensitive, now hummed from the sharp inflaming anguish. The shame she had felt, the guilt she had clung to, slipped from her person with each strike. How just a simple change of direction and force could make her feel so heated was insane, and yet each twist she made in the chains was less in horror and more in confused joy.

Joy that He understood some portion of her being. Joy that He thought so practically--

 _You are Firstborn, the first witch of my new order. The first of your_ _**pure** _ _bloodline. They will accept this. You will accept this. You will take this nothing that you are, this trash you’ve become, beaten down by normality and commoness, and become worthy of my knowledge, my secrets. If you can accomplish that, you will do great things, greater than you have ever known. In time, we will fill this worthless world with our kind, intelligent and proficient witches and wizards who will only think of the worthless and slavish as undeserving Mudbloods._

Now her gasps weren’t strained by pain, not entirely, but intermingled with yearning and a indescribable fever. Her heart beat rapidly, pumping heated blood throughout her limbs and giving  _life_ to places in her being that had been dead for a rather long time. That dark thing inside of her, that screaming roaring rushing  _thing_ _,_ greedily moved forward, demanding the sensation--anything, anything, she just wanted to  _feel_. Animalistic need made her flex her bound hands and it was difficult to focus on the voice as each lick of the whip set off an explosion of sensation that was no longer just pure agony. The onslaught of strikes at her backside did not subside, her pleasure was not brought on by relief. The constant throb of her core, slick from more than just sweat, demanded more stimulation. The craving felt as if it were carving itself into her very being, moving her past her threshold of tolerance and twisting her endurance into something wicked, something perverse. Goodness it hurt, the sense that her flesh was splitting, the hot itch it left behind on tightening skin, the ebb and flow of her twisting nerves against the magic that built and built and built--

But the pressure, the feeling of the strike, the impact across her starved flesh, and the dawning understanding as she began to crumble, to break, to go  _insane_ \--

_There it is. Now you know. It’s not with blood I’ll rule you. Perhaps, not even with magic. No, my sweet. It’s knowledge, my knowledge, that will make you crumble._

He knew, He knew that this whirlwind of want had created a powerful ache between her legs. That her nipples were hard and needy from more than just the chill of the room. That even the cold, a permanent feature of the space, could do nothing to ease the flames in her belly. That some switch had been flicked, some irreparable portion of her lost, all because of how  _she_ \--Bellatrix--had made her feel and the alluring drawl of His words. Perhaps, He was just as masterful at dissecting the human mind as He was with conquering magic. Perhaps He knew just what pain did to people. Perhaps, He knew just what to do to drive them to madness.

And then he’d taught Bellatrix to do the same.

Yes, she understood. His wisdom was more powerful than any magic. Magic only amplified His prowess, suffering had only brought Him control. Control of others as they bowed beneath His expert manipulation. As they truly broke down and craved His brand of salvation, anything to dull the _sharpness_  of the experience, of such exquisite torture.

_I cannot take all the credit, but Bellatrix did learn from the best._

Yes, and maybe, once upon a time, it had been her strung up by her wrists and forced to bow as she came to terms with the power pain, knowledge, and political finesse held over anyone.

_Pain will cleanse our faults and connect us through blood. Through pain we find relief--_

And pleasure, so much  _pleasure._

_And it is discipline, my Golden Girl, that brings obedience while obedience brings enlightenment. There are times when the pain reminds us why we must be obedient and diligent. The pain in turn makes us feel alive._

Then there was a pause as the dark voice seemed to hesitate and silence slipped into the space. Bellatrix halted her strikes and above Hermione’s own labored breathing and soft sounds of need she could hear her companion’s pants. When she’d managed to close her eyes she didn’t know but she didn’t have the strength to open them, was to afraid that the hunger there would be seen and easily reflected by the older witch. Only Hermione’s soft moan seemed to shatter that silence and resume the session.

_You’ll need a taste to truly understand._

“Crucio.”

The word was strained, whispered so low that she nearly missed the fact that Bellatrix had no doubt cast it wandlessly. What she didn’t miss was when the spell struck her body, when it licked along her skin and sunk deep into her flesh. There was a delay, immeasurable and yet also timeless, before it struck, all-consuming and intense. The pain, this  _pain_ _,_ was nothing like the whip and yet everything like it at the same time. Her nerves, already so raw and sensitive, were struck by the white-hot knives of the curse. Her mouth, once open to draw in breath, now let loose a wild screech as the spell drove all sound, all thought, all control from her being. Left behind was something more instinctual, something wild and frenzied that felt conflicted and twisted. She was being torn asunder, her skin removed from muscle and bone --no, no, the spell could do no such thing, yet it felt so real, so incredibly real--and all she could manage was the pathetic twitching and jerking that any witch or wizard would have done from the assault.

Her screams were cut, she didn’t have enough air, and her lungs felt tight as natural body functions became complex human algorithms. She forgot where she was, and whom she was with. The only thing that existed in that time, that endless time, was her body, her aching throbbing body…

Which buzzed with more than just her misery, which hummed with slick arousal as the perverse thing in her greedily absorbed the spell. She barely noticed, the mix of pain and heat, as it became sharp and violent, so vivid, so  _strong._

It was all one thing for her, one unceasing moment where the tightness in her body became unbearably akin to strangulation and her limbs screamed from strain. Where arduous bliss attacked her with vicious accuracy and all she could think was ‘please’ but couldn’t be sure as to what she was begging for.

Then it was over, done with the lifting of the spell as her ramrod straight body collapsed into the waiting arms of the nearby hovering Bellatrix Black. She didn’t know how or when she’d been released from the chains and found that the answer didn't matter. Instead she remained weak and limp, held by the warm arms that embraced her possessively as she shook and jerked and--

Moaned, impassioned and tender as she trembled against Bellatrix chest. Something was… something swept through her, like hot liquid  _relief_ as her sensitive nerves felt as if they were alive and expressing literal joy at the ending of the curse. She hissed as sensation whipped up her spine, as her eyes narrowed in bewilderment and a sudden compulsion struck her. It felt so  _good_ to be free from the curse, to feel the powerful ache of her sex, to swing her arms up with a sudden burst of energy so that she could hook her fingertips against the chest of her former adversary. That was certainly enough to make Bellatrix twitch, though she didn’t drop nor release her. And that was fine, the sensation of Bellatrix body--despite being clothed--against her own was deliriously exciting as the sensation that she could only describe as ecstasy continued to ravish her shivering body. She had never felt such abnormal passion before, such intense arousal, such commanding pleasure from--

“Spell-work is an interesting craft when you have a complete understanding over the magic. It’s much more refined, my curse, than your own don't you think?" Bellatrix purred, her words soft as Hermione gasped and held to her more than desperate, “The aftershocks will fade soon, dearie. They don’t talk about that, the  _relief_ from the spell. When every part of your body sings its praises and sort of… tips over the line once the curse is over. It’s somewhat emotional, no sane witch wants to be hurt to badly, not even you my little  _pure-_ **blood,** but then that happiness sort of spills over, becomes literal.”

Hermione would have thought it all a load of garbage, she hadn't seen Umbridge writhing around in delight, if she weren’t currently hanging there repressing the urge to convulse as each spasm brought a new wave of building pleasure.

“Beast, filthy woman, demon--” Hermione croaked out, driven by her aches--fueled by her pain and her arousal--but there was little to do as she settled down, still painfully aware of her needs and the soreness of her throat.

“Mhm, yes yes, all those things and more.” Bellatrix smirked.

Enough.

Hermione growled and brought up a hand, fully intending on smacking the woman that had just whipped her for whoever knew how long and and... _ruined_ her--no, she was not so naive, Bellatrix had done something to her but her body was far from ruined. Different yes, but not ruined--but instead of feeling the satisfying impact of her palm against flesh she hooked her fingertips and drew them down, aggressively, viciously, wanting to mark her with such a sudden demanding urgency that she could think of nothing else.

Certainly, the action startled Bellatrix, who pulled back once the deed was done with a hiss. Hermione’s nails had split her flesh, had drawn lines down her check which were rapidly filling with droplets of blood. Seeing that crimson, knowing she’d caused it, did very little to calm the rapid beat of her heart. If anything, it only increased it.

Yes, she’d done that, had made her hiss, and she saw the flicker of bestial need swim up from the depths of her gaze and destroy what little smug attitude was left in the woman. It replaced it, giving Bellatrix expression life with that intense ferality she was known for. Her lips pulled back in a smile, one that tugged at her cheeks--one perfect, one ruined--and she quickly dipped out her tongue to taste the blood that coated the one Hermione had  _claimed_ _._ Hermione wanted  _more_ of that, more of that smile, more of the way she’d managed to break Bellatrix carefully constructed facade of master torturer until what was left before her only gluttony and madness.

Something she could  _control._

Hermione hissed as Bellatrix leaned forward, their breath harsh and strained, their bodies pressed too tightly. The spasms left her but Hermione refused to bow to exhaustion. Instead she felt… fascinated, drawn to the body that had moments before made her howl and squirm with newly discovered needs, a body that now seemed to suffer just as she had.

Need was, in its own way, pain as well.

“Very good, Bellatrix.”

With an almost startled breath Bellatrix pulled up, if only so she could look over Hermione’s shoulder toward the voice that had addressed them. Tiredly Hermione tried to escape her grasp, but instead of letting her go Bellatrix merely turned her around to face Him.

Finally, she could see the Dark Lord.

“My Lord,” Hermione whispered tiredly, though it felt natural to do so, instinctual.

It managed to bring a broad serpentine smile to His face. Gone was the massive hood, the elegant robes, and instead he wore all black--typical and yet expected. She didn’t flinch when He turned His face, odd in its reconstruction since its birth during the Triwizard Tournament, to stare at her with a pleased nod.

“Yes, good… very good.”

Hermione didn’t bother repressing her soft content sigh, even if she wasn’t sure if Voldemort was praising her or the woman holding her up from behind.

“Hermione.”

Oh, perhaps it was her. “My Lord.”

“Do you understand?”

She gave a nervous tired lick of her lips, “I think so, my Lord.”

At that response, Voldemort narrowed His eyes which gleamed red and indifferent, “Ah, you think so? That is not certainty. Though do not worry, my dear. We will make you certain. This sort of growth can take time to be perfected.”

She didn’t have the energy to shiver though her breath caught at his proclamation.

“A bit of the Cruciatus before each lesson, I think, will make you certain, make you remember, until I ask this question again and you answer with complete confidence that you absolutely understand.”

She gave a slow nod, afraid and yet--

Bellatrix brought a hand with delicate wriggling fingers to cup her breast and suddenly the thought was irrelevant. The Dark Lord either didn’t notice or ignored when his Death Eater began to gently squeeze her.

Hermione was entranced, watching with parted lips as Bellatrix fingers brushed curiously against her flesh. She gasped softly when she felt her squeeze, trembling under the delicious pressure when Bellatrix dared to bend her fingers in a firm knead.

“Ms. Granger,” The Dark Lord huffed.

She sputtered and finally lifted a hand, moving it to capture the wrist of Bellatrix wayward hand which stilled upon contact. She didn’t pull it away, not yet.

“Good. I need your undivided attention.” He said, as if watching others being toyed with before Him was an occurrence He was used to, “You have earned your place as my sponsored. You will continue to please me so that my plans can move forward. I have two tasks for you, your main projects of study.”

He leaned forward with tilted head until He was rather close, incredibly close, to her face. She swallowed thickly, lust forgotten in the chill that billowed around Him and for a split moment she was incredibly grateful for the warmth of Bellatrix at her back--and her hand still held possessively upon her chest.

“You will examine some materials I’ve had sent to your room, girl. One is a book I found in Scotland. Very old, that thing, with a cover of flesh so do be careful. I need you to consume the work there and put it into practice. It appears to be a ritual of some sort that could possibly restore my body to its previous form. I find myself unable to dedicate the time to accomplish the task myself and thus you will do so for me, as a gift to my house for sponsoring your own. It is but one of many tithings you will be obligated to grant me, but it is the first you will attempt.”

She gave a bob of her head to signify her understanding.

“The second task I have for you may be… rather difficult but I have faith that you will figure it out.” Now His voice took on a curious tone, one that bore no room for argument, one that held little threat but plenty of warning. “You will start taking lessons with Severus Snape for advanced potion making. Ah, Ms. Granger, don’t make that face. I understand you feel it might be… beneath you? After all, you are a master potioneer but I assure you the education that Severus provides will be anything but rudimentary.”

Slowly He leaned up and away from her only to turn on His heel and begin to move back toward the darkness. From the shadows, she saw the tip of a green scaly nose and flickering pink tongue shift out to greet Him and it wasn’t long before the massive snake that Hermione had come to fear and think of as something more than a house pet came out to twine about His body and wrap around His person like a secondary limb.

“You will need a deeper understanding than what you currently have. Your little forays in potions-crafting and experimentation are interesting, Ms. Granger, but could be so much more with a little… focused education.”

And if it was anything He had taught her, it was that there was power in knowledge. With a wordless nod, she expressed her understanding

“I have left another book for you, it has no title and must be handled very carefully, more so than the other. You see, I received the book as a present from a wizard that returned from a raid near the Bahamas. He seemed to think it some worthless Muggle trinket but I am not so foolish. It may be nothing more than a diary from long dead trash but there is some truth to the words on those old pages. They speak briefly of Bimini, you know.”

_Bimini? The Bimini?_

“Ah… I must go. The ball is nearly over and it would be unfair for you to spend the last few hours listening to me… speculate. Bellatrix will take you back to your room and you will ask your companion to schedule your lessons and future obligations. Potions with Severus, the Dark Arts with Bellatrix, and so on and so forth. She should have my list.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, there were so many questions, but He was already moving toward the shadows.

“You may retrieve any belongings you wish to take from that poor flat of yours tomorrow morning. Or send your companion in your stead. Your former manager will receive your resignation but you may tell him personally that you are now in my service if that brings you some peace. I intend to have you as my second acting potioneer, though that is only temporary. Severus is rather possessive about his position.”

Then, He turned slightly, giving Hermione a look from over His shoulder.

“You see, I need you to do what is needed to progress toward our classes. I will be sure to check in on your progression, though do know that failure and laziness are very punishable. Your newly gained honor will be your motivation and all of that can come tumbling down around you should you prove to be nothing more than an unfortunate disappointment. Do not sully your house, do not embarrass me, and you will surely succeed.”

Then, with a roll of His shoulders He slipped into the darkness, though His voice was loud, a promising echo that rattled her very bones as her wand flew out from the space that had absorbed Him into the open unoccupied hand of the woman at her back.

“And should you succeed in the second task and create the potion I seek, the potion to emulate the Fountain of Youth from Bimini, then I will be able to end my search and devote my time to teaching you properly.”

She couldn’t see Him smile, but she could feel it, feel it stretch across her mind just as surely as His control had stretched across her existence.

 _Give me what I want, Granger. So, I can say I’ve found my_ _**heir.** _

 


	9. moving forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologize for the lack of update. Got a promotion and needed to move cross-country. Original length of chapter nine was 20k words. So, splitting the chapter in two. Thank you so much for the comments.

“What do you think about werewolves?”

They’d given her a week, one measly week, to grieve the life she’d lost and embrace the one she’d gained. Yet, time had spiraled away from her, spilling past her desperately grappling fingertips like so much fine sand. There hadn’t been time for grieving as any moment alone she’d managed to gain had been little and rare. If it wasn’t Luna hovering about her--for her friend had practically invaded her small space, unofficially moving in as if they were housemates back at Hogwarts and not grown women that, more times than not, kept sharing a bed--then it was the mistress of the manor, whose impeccable style and discipline seemed to extend toward more than just her son. Soon one week had stretched into another, and that week then stretched into another, until she’d managed just little under a month of ‘weeks’ with little grieving in between.

Only hype-adjustment.

“Nothing in particular,” Hermione mumbled, her nose so close to the old parchment of the Dark Lord’s flesh colored book that she could practically _smell_ the age of the ink. “They are citizens are they not?”

She didn’t bother looking up from the book she combed with meticulous care, she knew her current company didn’t mind whether she made eye contact or not. If anything, she was surprised the woman was speaking with her, but she supposed it was only proper. After all, she’d been receiving various visitors all week around this hour in the Malfoy library. Noon seemed like the perfect, and unfortunately inescapable time, for forced tea.

“I suppose,” Her visitor mused, with gracious airs more thoughtful than dismissive, “Do you suppose they’re dangerous?”

Hermione quirked a brow but didn’t dare lift her gaze from her page. It would have been too difficult anyway, the idle compulsion spell--to help encourage her, Luna had said--made it rather hard to break away from such important studies. “As dangerous as any other witch or wizard, I guess.”

There was a snort from the corner as Hermione turned a page, only removing her gaze from the old book to scribble in the coiled together notepad she’d been given during her first week. It was a moment she would never forget, the approach of the manor mistress--

“You’ll need this,” Narcissa had said, her tone clipped and her gaze chilling. It wasn’t anything Hermione hadn’t expected, her expression was always the perfect mask of disinterest, but the gift had been somewhat surprising.

“What is this?” She’d asked, and while she appeared rather polite one could have called her enthusiasm for the wrapped bundle being extended toward her somewhat tapered. Yet, who could blame her? On the morning after her… first lesson with Bellatrix and the Dark Lord she’d been somewhat reserved. The memories--so vivid and _real_ she could still feel the sensation of the whip that had torn her spiritually asunder--had refused to leave the front of her mind. They weren’t haunting her, however, like she’d expected them to. No, they were…

Distant. Mere experiences of a previous person who now knew far too _much_ to act so ignorant and naive. She had purpose now, no matter how obscure or _dark_ and the night she’d returned to Luna’s arms, to sob and shake and wonder _why_ would be the last she spent wallowing in petulant sadness.

Self-pity had no place in her person, not now, not after _that._

Amazingly enough, despite a lack of Luna that morning to push her forward, she had managed to leave the solitude of her new room and wander the manor all on her own, even if all she’d had was a freshly repaired green robe to wear.

That was when she’d been intercepted-- “You’ll need it.”

“I hope it’s a bundle of clothing,” She mumbled, only to jerk with a huff as she felt a peculiar sting to her thigh. “Did you just…

Narcissa gave a lazy twirl of her wand about her wrist but didn’t answer. Yes, the Lady of the Manor had just flung a stinging hex at her and didn’t look the least bit bothered by it.

“It’s a grimoire, _your_ grimoire, to be exact.”

“A grimoire?” With a slow lick of her lips she’d unwrapped the offered gift, exposing a beautiful brown colored cover with the engraved shape of a black-furred lioness at the center of the leathers. It was unexpected, this _gift_. “Why?”

For a moment, Hermione thought Narcissa’s eyes had softened but perhaps it was a shift of light, “Every great spellcaster needs their own personal book of created invocations. It is my gift to you. A proper witch has a grimoire, don’t let anyone else tell you differently. Write in it, often, every day if you can.”

“As a diary, then?” Hermione had asked, curious.

“No, you silly girl.” Narcissa drawled, though Hermione saw the twitch of a smile threaten to overcome her icy expression, “It’s for you to create in. To write your spellwork. Your research. Your discoveries. And you best be quick about it too, the discoveries portion. **He** expects great things from you.”

Which is why she wrote in it now. Had been writing in it, ever since she’d received it. Though she wasn’t sure exactly why Narcissa had gone out of her way to deliver something so precious to her person she couldn’t help but be thankful the older witch seemed to be… caring for her. In her own apathetic manner. Even her closet now had a decent mixture of her own clothing and a few pieces purchased by Narcissa, whose only reply when Hermione had asked ‘why’ had been--

“You ask too many questions, girl. Hush up now and dress for dinner. Wear the nice green robe I got you.”

She was no longer a _girl_ but one did not correct Narcissa Malfoy without finding their skin nearly reddened and stung.

“Do you think they’re controllable?”

With a soft sigh, Hermione leaned back in the massive armchair she’d claimed for her studies. With book and grimoire left to the massive desk she pushed away and stood--though it took a great amount of will to leave the ominous secrets of the book, which seemed to always whisper _just one more page._

“Parkinson,” Hermione grumbled, “Why are you asking me these questions?”

The Slytherin gave a soft bark of shock, fumbling with the gold-banded book she’d pilfered from the library shelves. “I uh…”

“Is this about Lavender? Lavender Brown?”

“No!” Pansy exclaimed, though Hermione noticed her grip upon the book grew much tighter, “No… no she’s perfectly fine and all. A very nice girl, that Lavender.”

“She’s your companion, isn’t she?” With an idle wave of her hand Hermione moved from her desk to rescue the poor book Pansy seemed intent on squeezing. The last thing she needed to happen was for any of the objects in the massive ancient library to become broken or misshapen, least Narcissa come down upon her like some howling Dementor

 **“** She… is.” Pansy replied, though the hesitation in her tone was enough to make Hermione pause.

When had this happened? When had Hermione begun to entertain guests like this? Like Pansy? When had she settled into her role as budding socialite under Luna’s careful--if not strange--guidance and Narcissa’s watchful eye? Was it the day after her lesson? When she’d been given the grimoire and Luna had finally returned with appropriate robes for her to dress in amongst her other personal effects? Or, was it that night, the night when Bellatrix had shown her face again and Hermione had… had…

Well, she supposed that night she’d made a proper fool of herself, screaming and clawing across the table as Luna and Draco held her back and Lucius stood in the doorway trying to hide an expression of amusement behind a gloved hand.

She wasn’t sure what had taken over her, only that she’d wanted to _hurt_ her, to stake some _claim_ , to let her know that she _REMEMBERED_ \--

Narcissa had not been pleased at her lack of proper manners at the dinner table, that’s for certain.

But the next time she’d seen her--at breakfast, to be sure--that rolling aggressive sensation had turned into something… odd, into something like need. It was a familiar longing for _touch_ , something she’d blamed on the whip--since it wasn’t like she didn’t have someone to touch her, Luna enjoyed toying with her hair in the morning and holding her hand like she was some child when they wandered the gardens at night--but by the third day, when she’d bumped into Bellatrix in the library after a particularly intense conversation about what she would and wouldn’t take for a familiar…

The companionable silence they’d shared had been nice. When Bellatrix had pushed her into the corner of the couch and whispered about the day she’d begin a more _proper_ courting…. That had been nice too.

Goodness, maybe this was all proof that she was, indeed, going insane and it only took a little over a week.

“I apologize. Is my company… bothering you?” Pansy whispered, and she had never heard anyone sound so unsure when speaking with her, especially not this woman, her Slytherin rival, who had changed just enough in the time she’d last seen her. When she’d been a screeching selfish thing, demanding The-Boy, demanding sacrifice--

“No Pansy,” Hermione sighed. It would do her no good to say something nasty and if she were honest she didn’t mind her company and hadn’t the last few afternoons Pansy had invaded the library unannounced. “It’s fine. Shall I call for us some tea and you can tell me what’s really on your mind?”

“No thank you,” Pansy wrinkled her nose, “I try not to ah… drink the stuff. It’s not bad, per say, but isn’t it sort of odd? It’s just leaves and water. I prefer firewhiskey myself.”

Hermione didn’t bother repressing her smirk at the thought of that, “Don’t let Narcissa hear that, she’d have a fit.”

“Why? Because proper witches--”

“Don’t,” Hermione held up her hand, her gaze set to shift about the library. Narcissa always had an odd habit of popping up whenever people spoke of her. She was as cunning and sly as she was beautiful.

Pansy nodded her understanding. The last thing she probably wanted was to be hexed again. Hermione doubted she’d forgotten about Narcissa’s revenge when she’d found Pansy’s feet upon her precious black-colored banyan wood serving table.

“So, what do you think? About werewolves?”

Back to this again.

With a groan, Hermione settled on the couch, one leg crossed over the other as she adjusted her robes and bounced a bunny-slippered foot courtesy of Luna. “I think they are dangerous, to a degree. As dangerous as any of us, really, but not uncivilized or savage. They are witches and wizards in there too, you know.”

“I know, I mean it’s not like Lavender is a savage, I’d never suggest such but…”

“But?”

With a sniff, Pansy settled beside her on the couch, her feet half-raised to place upon the serving table before she thought better of it and slowly lowered them back to the hardwood ground, where they belonged. “She can be a bit scary sometimes. It’s in her eyes, you know? Sometimes I worry she might… change.”

“That’s impossible.” Hermione said, right before they were interrupted by the soft _pop_ of a house-self apparating into the space, a tray of biscuits and a kettle of tea in its possession.

“Flemming has brought Mistress Granger and friend their afternoon tea.”

While Pansy grimaced Hermione only smiled pleasantly and motioned to the serving table, “Thank you, Flemming. I appreciate your gracious nature.”

What had once been a twisted scowl--for Hermione had told Flemming not so many days ago, not to serve her, that she didn’t have to, and had inadvertently greatly insulted the elf in doing so--turned into a broad grin.

“Flemming enjoys serving, Mistress Granger. It is her honor to serve someone from the House of Granger.”

With a slight smile only tampered by mild discomfort Hermione nodded. “Thank you.”

Then, with a bob of her head the house-elf left their afternoon tea on the table and disappeared with another soft pop.

“You’re getting used to it.” Pansy commented as she reached for a biscuit but avoided the tea.

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, though didn’t have time to mourn yet another lost childhood venture into preposterous ‘equality’ built notions and morals. The elves enjoyed their place and she was not as ignorant as she had been to the joy they received in their service.

She was starting to understand _some_ of the joy in obedience.

For a moment silence stretched before them, though Pansy seemed to relax more in her presence while Hermione poured herself a cup of tea.

“As I was saying, that’s impossible. She’s infected but not enough to change, she said as much.”

“Yes, of course. I know that, it’s just. Those nights, when she isn’t with them, she can get…”

Hermione glanced up briefly, noted the crimson flush upon Pansy’s face and narrowed her eyes. “She can get…?”

“Handsy! She’s so handsy!”

“Handsy…” Hermione chirped, trying to keep the incredulous tone out of her voice.

“Closer to the full moon, really.” Pansy mumbled, embarrassed. Though, Hermione had to admit that she would have also been embarrassed if she had categorized someone’s behavior as ‘handsy’.

“Werewolves communicate through a lot of body language, Pansy. Touch, affection--”

“Biting? She’s getting a little rough--”  
  
“You’re letting her bite you?” Hermione whispered, scandalized.

“I’m not _letting_ her. That is… This is difficult to explain, this is a complex situation and I’m just looking for some way to control--”

“The handsiness?”

“Are you taking me seriously?” Pansy narrowed her eyes.

“Yes, of course.” But Hermione was sure the disbelief upon her face said otherwise, “The wand, then?”

“I am _not_ drawing my wand upon my companion!” Pansy hissed, the strength of her statement somewhat startling to Hermione who swore she heard more than just pride in the spat-out phrase.

“You don’t want to hurt her…”

For a moment, Pansy simply sat, mouth open as she considered her words. “It’s… only slightly concerning. Besides, it’s like disciplining a house-elf in public. How undignified. Such a barbaric and desperate way of showing power. I’m a lady, Granger, not a bully.”

Hermione quirked a brow and tried to keep the incredulous quirk of her lips under control.

She must have failed since Pansy was quick to sneer and drop her gaze before she mumbled, “Not a complete bully. Not anymore.”

The silence that followed thereafter was slightly uncomfortable and more than once Pansy took a deep breath, as if to say something heavy, but failed to speak. It was interesting to watch the play of emotion cross her face and watch the shadows dance across her gaze. Perhaps, she thought Hermione couldn’t tell. Perhaps, she thought she wasn’t paying attention to the way she nibbled her bottom lip or the crinkle of her brow as she mentally worked through her words. She couldn’t possibly understand the implications of her silence or the nervous curl of fingertips around a forgotten biscuit.

But she did.

“I won’t hold it against you,” Hermione said. It was enough to jerk Pansy back from her thoughts.

“You… won’t?”

With a soft breath, Hermione exhaled across the rippling surface of her tea, thoughtful but not bitter. Not anymore.

“I’ll leave the faults of our past in the past, so long as you do the same.”

Pansy swallowed thickly and Hermione idly enjoyed the nervous twitch of her throat, “I’m not kissing up to you, you know. I’m… trying, genuinely trying, to be a pleasant associate. I’m not here to beg for forgiveness.”

“And I’m not going to offer it, not easily.” Hermione gave a listless shrug of one shoulder, “I merely see no reason to hold onto the actions done against me during our rather stressful school tenure. I’d have a lot of enemies now, if I did, and like yourself I enjoy the illusion of being a ‘lady’.”

Pansy sat a bit straighter, her lips turned down in a hard frown of offense, “It’s not an illusion.”

Yet, Hermione only smiled into her cup, “Oh really? I’m not sure how ladylike it is to allow one's companion to bite all over them--”

“I’ve told you all this in confidence! I better not hear another word about Lavender’s biting outside of this library or I’ll--”

There was a slow knocking sound from the front of the room, a noise created by knuckle flesh rapping against wood. Over the lip of her cup she saw Draco, his expression strained and his lips twisted down in discomfort. He was rather pale, as pale as Pansy, who stared at the threshold--and at the boy who stood in it--as if she were seeing a ghost and not an associate.

“What…” Draco rasped, “the bloody hell are you two talking about?”

Pansy was the first to leap from her seat with a strangled, “Nothing!”

While Hermione, at a much more casual pace, stood from the couch and reached for the ceiling. She groaned as she felt her muscles stretch and tighten beneath her casual robes and only once Draco seemed content with Pansy’s babbling follow-up did she begin a slow shuffle toward the doorway.

“Girl talk, that’s all it was, just a bit of girl talk. Talk just for girls, only girls, _only_ us gals being pals!”

Hermione lifted a hand to pat Pansy’s back in passing in what she hoped was a sign that she should and could shut up before she smiled thinly toward the newest arrival, “So you’ve come to escort me? How sweet of you.”

Draco gave a snort, dismissing Pansy’s statement with a wave of his hand as Hermione gained his full attention, “Nonsense. I’m a gentleman after all, this is no trouble nor a symbol of sweetness. Besides, you’d be late if I didn’t come to remind you of your other obligations.”

“One time, it was one time--”

“And he didn’t shut up about it afterwards.”

“Am I supposed to hear any of this?” Pansy asked, her gaze steady on them.

“It’s fine,” Draco answered for them but Hermione’s only reply was a slow lick of her lips. Her ‘personal’ studies and goals were no secret among the regular occupants of the manor. Her tutors and the nature of her lessons, that was another thing entirely. It seemed as if the Dark Lord held no desire to have her… spoiled by outside influences when it came to her advancing education. For all she knew the Dark Lord had the wizarding world thinking her already more than suitable for her new place while His appointed gave her the tools to perfect the illusion.

“It’s only you,” she smiled slyly, wondering whether Pansy would take the statement as an insult to her overall importance in the pure-blood community or some sort of compliment that signified Hermione’s ease with her presence. _She_ wasn’t sure which she wanted it to actually be.

“Right...” Pansy stepped around them, her narrowed gaze and wrinkled nose a hint to her confusion. That would be enough for now, “Still, I best go.”

Though she paused just past the threshold, waiting to perform the ritualistic pleasantries they had been committed to since Pansy’s first unannounced visit. She wasn’t sure why they bothered, they both knew the words held little meaning, other than reassurance. There was no older pure-blood snob to tell them otherwise, nor some unfamiliar guest inhabiting the space unaware of their relationship--whatever that relationship was.

Still, she was the first to say, “Will you be back tomorrow?”

And like magic the tension in Pansy’s shoulders eased and with a soft sound that Hermione caught and Draco seemed to ignore she said, “I will be, so long as I have your permission.”

“You do.”

Then without another word she was gone, her apparition flawless.

Which left--

“Draco, really. I don’t need an escort every time.”

Despite her blunt statement her current company only smiled, something slick and amused as if her irritation impacted him no more than the warmth of the sun against his chest.

“And miss all this?” He gave an idle wave of his hand toward the library proper as Hermione slipped past him with a snort. “Perish the thought, Ms. Granger. A lady of your status should always have the proper associate at your side.”

“And what about you is proper?”

“I’m punctual, for example.” Draco shot toward her back and while Hermione didn’t bother to glance over her shoulder at his snappish tone she knew he was following her.

“One time, little dragon, it was only one time. This is difficult work, spellcrafting and research, a girl could get distracted. Furthermore, I was still there, you know.”

She didn’t need to look at him to know he was scowling. She could hear his irritation in the slap of well-polished shoes against wooden flooring as he picked up his pace to walk at her side.

“You were late, very late--”

“A few minutes late--”

“ _Fifteen_ minutes late, Granger.”

“That’s still on time in some circles--”

“Not ours,” Draco hissed, the conviction, the _warning, in_ his tone enough to ease the wild grin that had crossed her expression. “And don’t call me that.”

With a soft breath, Hermione only nodded, both to the truth of his words and his request. The first time she’d caught Narcissa call him that she’d felt… unsettled. There’d been a bitterness in her belly, a boiling swirling icky petulance that had made her guts cramp in some undeniable scrutiny. She hadn’t been able to help herself when she’d caught him alone, hadn’t been able to stop her lips from mocking him with all the mimicked sweetness and affection she had witnessed but couldn’t have as her _own._

He had mocked her back, naturally. Rightfully so, if she were honest. Yet, his words had been harsh and the pain as strong as Bellatrix’s whip. If she closed her eyes she could still _hear_ the sound of her open palm striking an unprotected cheek, cutting off words that had hissed viciously about how it felt to still _have_ parents that cared enough to call him sickeningly cute names.

The experience had left them both somewhat… cowed. Tense? Hurt? Embarrassed?  Vulnerable? She couldn’t quite describe it. Here they were, grown and wicked--and some portion of her was wicked, wasn’t it? Or at least awakened to the possibility--and they still squabbled like children. Yet, after so many weeks of tense and forced pleasantries--some that went rather well, and some that went rather… bad--they had come to an odd comfortable relationship swaddled in the brotherhood only a pair of people forced to endure a similar cause could develop.

Once upon a time she could have hated him. Perhaps, should still hate him, but Draco was not some caricature of evil no more than Pansy was some shallow-minded bully. It all came back to the war, back to the change that had swept over them, back to adulthood and back to a shared illusion of freedom that came from _belonging_ to a seemingly all powerful being.

They were the same, both dogs of circumstance, this Slytherin prince and herself--the unsuspecting Gryffindor princess. Both supposedly politically powerful, both slaves to the madness that were meant to make them that way.

Now when she mocked him it was with a sort of dark affection she hadn’t felt before. Weeks of sharing the same space and the same hardships would do that to a person.

“And I hope you do know that for every screw up you have I too suffer.”

“Likewise,” Hermione snorted.

Draco didn’t bother with a response. There wasn’t enough time. Despite the manor’s lavish layout and extravagant grounds the hallway that lead from the library to the wing of study was suspiciously short. Any other place Hermione went needed a certain amount of planning--as a proper lady was never late to breakfast, afternoon tea, nor dinner--but not this space, not when she was already so close.

Maybe that was why Draco had been so annoyed at her accidental tardiness so many sessions ago.

With a quick twist of wrist and a flick of hand Draco opened the door, moving his magic in a wandless manner that seemed incredibly easy but Hermione knew it to be rather complex. It was the wards that covered the space keeping that door closed and as Draco wordlessly commanded them to drop as a master of the manor the door obeyed, opening with a wail that seemed out of place and yet completely familiar.

“After you,” Draco said, accentuating the motion with a wave of his arm and the flutter of well-tailored robes.

One by one the lanterns lit, awakened by Draco’s voice--or perhaps whatever he’d done earlier, Hermione wasn’t entirely sure--and the revealed corridor became visible and less of a death trap. It was one of several hidden behind one of many sealed tight doors, doors she hadn’t questioned or attempted to open, doors she always passed by without a flicker of curiosity to show on her face.

Eventually, she’d see them all. She had no doubt about that, but for now it was _his_ corridor that she was meant to traverse, just as she did and had done since her studies began. Once upon a time, she had hesitated to venture down the winding staircase, to trust the flickering lantern light and brace her body against the chill that seeped into her bones and reminded her so very much of her _night_ of nights only a few weeks back, but now she moved with purpose, familiar with each step that led her deeper into a section of what must have been a portion of the Malfoy dungeons so very long ago. Now it was a different kind of dungeon.

Snape’s dungeon.

“So nice of you to join me, Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Granger.”

His voice wrapped around her, so controlled and haughty, dripping with the slightest bit of agitation as if the very idea of their presence was anything but _nice_. He hadn’t changed much, Severus, if the space he’d procured for their lessons was any indication. It was only his mannerisms, his short-clipped words, and the haunting twist of his gaze that said anything otherwise. It was a gaze that said he’d _seen_ things, _done_ things, and yet had moved on all the same. Hermione didn’t question it, and she hadn’t expressed the shock she’d expected to feel when she’d first laid eyes on him. She’d been prepared, the Dark Lord had mentioned his skills and eventual presence in her life and she fancied herself a woman beyond hysterics when faced with certain realities.

Realities like betrayal, realities that spoke of whispered Order members and long stressful nights spent pouring over parchment and irrational theories. Realities that seeped into her dreams like sticky smeared ink, staining her mentality with visions of blood, smoke, and broken bodies.

All that mattered was in this reality he was a hero and the Order was not.

It was surprisingly easy to come to terms with but she’d had six years to do that.

He stepped forward and motioned with a lazy wave of his hand toward their usual brewing spot, a simplistic table set up with the finest equipment Malfoy esteem could afford. Other than a small patch of grey along the left side of his head he seemed no different than he had during his tenure at Hogwarts. The fact that he still functioned there as a Professor inspired a misleading sense of normalcy Hermione found difficult to shake off. She supposed it was the Dark Lord that had forced him to return to his former position. Everything needed to appear as normal as possible for the world to keep turning, didn’t it? Yet, why not as Headmaster?

She’d asked him that during their second session and the reprimand to focus her ‘silly unwarranted curiosities’ had been swift. Yet, she did find out--via a sneered whispered--that someone else had taken the job.

But who? McGona--

“Ms. Granger, when you are finished daydreaming and would like to actually work on your assignment for this week please, by all means, take a seat and join us.”

With a soft snort--how rude of him to startle her--she shook herself and pulled out her stool. Draco, already seated with hands folded in a manner that seemed practiced and overdone, only tossed her a smirk that she didn’t have time to wipe off his face.

“What’s to be done today, Godfather?”

Snape gave Draco a look as Hermione settled in, one strong enough to make Draco cringed and smile nervously.

“That’s Professor in my dungeons, boy. How many times must I explain that to you?”

It was Draco’s pride that kept him from flinching, “My apologies, Professor.”

Now, it was Hermione’s turn to smile smugly.

Whatever harsh look that Draco had managed to make Snape dredge up failed to soften and soon enough he turned that look to her, “Ms. Granger. I’d like to hope you’ve made progress on the theorization of ingredient experimentation study I asked for?”

To this she swallowed thickly, “Yes, Professor.”

“And, with that study has come an understanding that I am not here to be your potions mule or encyclopedia?”

“Y-yes, Professor,” she whispered as she repressed the urge to cringe at the reminder of her folly but a few sessions ago. Yet, how could she be blamed for her anger? For her questions? When she’d been told Severus was there to assist her with her tasks? She hadn’t expected him to feed her answers, such an idea was beneath her, she was Hermione Granger after all, brilliant supposedly and a swot to be sure but she had expected a bit more than… well, _this._

A class on advanced potion construction had not been her initial idea of proper assistance. It had originally felt like a waste of time. The Dark Lord wanted the impossible and Snape was only giving her the tools to create the probable. She had dabbled in experimentation before--it had kept her sane these last few years--but there had still been loose directions, still trial and error and blind gumption. Now, she needed to know the _why_ behind those directions and that in itself was an exhausting task.

“I will not have you creating some potion that turns the Dark Lord into a dog, girl, all because you don’t understand why certain things are prepared a certain way. If we blindly follow the directions in every potion we create then we lack the means for outside discovery. For change, and He is all about change if nothing else.”

“Of course, sir.” Hermione mumbled, her hands clasped tightly together before her in the proper mimic of an attentive student.

“I can only hope that someone with your supposed brainpower can begin to grasp these simple concepts, Ms. Granger. I do hate wasting my time on the mundane and unworthy and I have little cause to believe you’ve done much since you graduated from an irritating interfering child to an annoying elevated adult.”

She sucked in a sharp breath at that admission and scowled with pinched brow as Draco shook beside her, chuckling at her expense with strained wheezing in an attempt to not be caught.

Bloody Slytherin _worm._ The entire ordeal was only made worse by having to share such a session with him.

“I assure you, Professor, that I have gained a… humble understanding of the lesson.”

“Hm,” Snape idly tapped one of the portable cauldrons, his eyes half-lidded, bored, “Then I suppose I’ll need to take your word for it, since I doubt you can prove such.”

She bit her lip to keep from growling.

“Mr. Malfoy. Ms. Granger. Today you’ll be crafting a potion from _Dark Secrets with Dark Liquids_. It’s a favorite of our Lord and His shelves could use a restocking on a few particulars. I do hope, for both your sakes, that you’ve read the appropriate chapters as I’ll be describing the effect I want and you’ll be using the ingredients discussed in the book to create it.”

Easy enough.

“However, I don’t care for lazy students who can only recite lists instead of _think._ You’ll find a few of the needed ingredients are missing. You’ll need to substitute. I do hope you don’t melt _this_ cauldron, Ms. Granger. For a former potioneer of St. Mungo’s I’m rather concerned about your… level of skill. Let alone as His Chosen One.”

Well _shit._

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

“I think it went rather well this time. He was very polite.

“You’re kidding, right?” Hermione said, brow quirked and eyes wide 

“I’d go as far as to say that I believe he likes you. Far less insults this session. You’re improving rather fast.”

“Draco…”

It was difficult to tell whether he was teasing her. Each word seemed oddly sincere despite the sarcastic tenure they should have carried. This dance they committed to, this unspoken rivalry within the confines of that shared classroom and beyond it, wasn’t entirely unusual but his posture was off, his attention distant. Their routine, comfortable despite its recent birth, normally ended with them before the massive doors of the library where they would part ways with only the slightest of snarky comments shared between them. This time though their tired shuffle had ended early, leaving them before a simple window with a view of the expansive Malfoy gardens. Whatever he was staring at had his focus and it didn’t take long for Hermione’s curiosity to bring her beside him.

“December.” Draco mumbled, his phrase only interrupted by the sound of window glass being tapped by his own nervously twitching fingertips, “They want to have your coming out ball in December.”

Whatever she’d expected him to say that was not it, “Excuse me?”

There was a figure out in the gardens, two actually, both motioning toward the landscape with jerky arms and frowning faces.

“The ball to announce to the general public your new status.” Draco elaborated, his tone so matter-of-fact that one would have believed he was explaining the upcoming weather. “It’s not as intimate as the Autumn Revel. This is more formal, more official.”

“That was intimate?” Hermione hissed.

“Anyone can come to this--”

“Anyone?” Hermione interrupted.

“Granger,” he drawled, “Unlike you I have actual responsibilities--”

“Are you daft? So, the things I’m being told to do aren’t responsibilities--”

“--- _actual_ responsibilities.” Draco snorted, interrupting her with nothing more than a flippant wave of hand, “So I don’t have all day to be interrupted while trying to explain this to you. I’m giving you some heads up, be a tad more grateful, would you?”

The words that wanted to escape her mouth, all haughtiness and irritation, were swallowed in exchange for--”A heads up to what?”

“I’m not supposed to say much.” While he spoke his gaze never left the figures, both feminine in body structure despite the weight and bulk of the autumn robes they wore. Really, it was the elegant designs that gave them away followed by Draco’s whispered sentence. “Mum would curse me something good if I ruined the surprise.”

Now she saw it, the way delicate hands gestured wildly while strands of white blonde hair peeked out from behind a raised hood when a particularly harsh breeze blew past.

“In December, they will host your ball. The entire wizarding world will know what He has claimed you are capable of. You will officially establish the power of your House and prove you deserve to lead it. Your job is to make sure you’re prepared. Whatever He’s asked you to do, that first task, you need to make sure it’s _done._ He’s expecting you to show… well… everyone.”

And left unspoken were the consequences should she fail.

“It’s like an exam, Granger. He’ll be putting you on display, you know, in some ceremonious manner all the while secretly saying ‘look at this thing I made, look what my power can do, what my research has given us’. You’re a gift to the community, and His gift to you is all this. This… fame, this wealth, but never forget where it comes from, what you have to do to keep it.”

His tone was so soft, a mixture of dreamy acceptance, and perhaps that was what made her most nervous. Not his words, as ominous as they were, nor the knowledge they held--December was her deadline, her deadline to prove she deserved her titles, her life, her purpose--but the idea that this was _normal,_ just something she _had_ to do.

“This is a pure-blood thing, isn’t it?” Hermione whispered, only momentarily distracted by the antics in the gardens below, which had escalated to the head of the household being lifted by the secondary figure and slung over their shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Is that--”

“This happens all the time,” Draco mumbled, but his tone seemed lighter now, more at ease. “Pay it no mind.”

Then there was silence only interrupted as Narcissa’s squeals of indignation came to them muffled through the window.

“Mum and Luna will help you understand the ‘pure-blood thing’ part of it but only Severus can help you with the ‘if I want to live I better do this’ part of it. So… don’t let it strain you. He’s hard on you because _He_ can be so much worse.”

With a slow exhale, she turned away from the window, no longer interested in the actions taking place beyond the walls the housed her as the figures stormed toward the gate that separated garden from home.

“Your warning, while appreciated, is still a tad vague--”

“But the message is clear enough, isn’t it?” Draco said, eyebrow quirked as his posture changed, becoming more relaxed in comparison to the tight shoulders that had plagued him in the potion dungeons.

“Sure,” Hermione snorted. “Do what I’ve been asked among the many other arduous tasks in very little time to prove I’m more than some mud--”

“Don’t.” Draco hissed, his gaze wild, aflame with fervent passion and just the tiniest sliver of fear, “Don’t belittle His research. Don’t belittle _Him_ by saying such terms.”

“Terms that He had no issue with--”

“That was before,” Draco stepped closer, his brow slightly damp, his voice barely more than a terse whisper. “This is now. Do not act foolish with me, Granger. You won’t belittle my intelligence by acting stupidly ignorant when I know you aren’t. His word is gospel and you best remember to praise it. It’s His terms that have made you some first-generation Merlin, and the very same terms that can turn you back into dirt.”

And perhaps it was the stress of the overall situation, of the sudden expectation that she was meant to spew glory with every word and praise with her very breath but she felt some tightly bundled coil in her chest constrict and snap. With whip-like movement, something jerky and crazed, she lunged forward. Automatically, though not mechanically, she sought to press him against the wall, his robes a wrinkled bundle clutched within her clenched tight fists. Despite their height difference--and ultimately, their difference in weight and muscle tone--he seemed effectively pinned. Just another living breathing body, taking one shallow and strained breath after another, pressed against her own waiting to be commanded by her power.

Maybe it was the magic that crackled along her skin, ready and eager to be used, or perhaps the look that consumed her gaze--some grotesque nasty expression, she supposed, all teeth, perfect teeth, and flared nose—but his eyes were pinned to her own, narrowed and callous but cowed while her own reflected… something. Something she couldn’t name, something that felt as oily and slick as the _thing_ that lived in her chest, in her belly, in her very core.

“You disrespect me, Malfoy.” She drawled, her voice tight and controlled, but she was showing far too much teeth, far too much desire to _harm_.

It was different, so different, then her need to consume Bellatrix. Where her pain would have brought her immense pleasure, where _her_ submission would have been so much sweeter. No, this was something just as instinctual, just as pivotal, but there was something off about her urge. Something off about wanting to hear him scream and finally, finally _accept_ her prowess, her presence, her _existence_. It wouldn’t satisfy her to cause him pain, to feel the panicked flicker of his heartbeat. Not in the same way, not in the way she _needed._

No, he would only leave her hungry for… _more._

“I am not dirt, I was _never_ dirt, nor mud, nor some worthless subhuman to be forgotten and shoved aside like so many retired house-elves.” She rasped, her voice steady but tinted with the harsh cut of her frustration, of that dark thing that rolled about in her chest begging to be free. “My blood is as red as your own, has always been, and no sudden proclamation--”

Then she hissed, caught unaware by a sudden stinging slice that broke across her back and brought with it a red blossom of sudden agony. Her skin felt as if it were peeling, stripped back and away from bone and muscle as something hot and searing cut a path along her flesh to reach something vital. Her voice caught in her throat, released in a gurgle of surprise as she stumbled back and away from her prey while her mind screamed out several healing spells but her body forgot to voice them—that and a wand would have been needed to give them the efficiency she needed to ease the throbbing heat that crawled across her.

With her arms awkwardly bent back and over her shoulders she tried to feel for the wound, a wound that she thought must exist from between her shoulder-blades all the way down to the small of her back. Yet, as she frantically gripped at her elegantly styled robes of green--for Luna seemed oddly adamant that she must display the color of her sponsor for a time-- she felt no rips among the fabric. With deep frantic breaths and eyes wide she rode out the pain, ignoring the twitch of pulsing muscles as her mind softly whispered--

_How unrefined, that pain. So unlike Bellatrix. So unlike Him. Who--_

“Miss Granger,” The voice spoke, a refined undeniable collection of barely restrained irritation. “A lady mustn't strike out at her potions partner. It’s rather unbefitting of a Head of House.”

She sneered, still riled up, still _humming_ with the need to warp Draco’s view of reality now powered by the fading lash of some casually tossed hex.

“Professor,” She tried to keep her voice even, to keep her anger from her tone as Draco sucked in gulps of air and moved slowly away from the wall. “You… hexed me.”

Snape quirked a brow, the wand within his grasp held loosely, as if he had nothing to fear in terms of retaliation. He didn’t, to be sure, not when he held such a high status among His most precious and treasured. That and, Hermione, for all her irritation, still found the idea of striking a teacher somewhat abhorrent. Even if it was _this_ particular teacher.

“So I did.” Snape drawled, “Did you not have an assignment to attend to, or do you find wrestling with Mr. Malfoy like some unrefined beast a more enjoyable task to complete?”

Without the sting of pain to focus on she found herself a flushed red mess, her cheeks warmed with embarrassment while Draco carefully adjusted his robes.

“We had a small disagreement, it’s all fine now.” Draco answered swiftly, as if this odd tension between them was meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

And perhaps it was.

“Miss Granger?” With quirked brow Snape turned to her.

“Y-yes,” Hermione croaked, though most of her attention was on the speck of lint she casually picked from her sleeve as her heart rate settled and her muscles obeyed her, “I was having some trouble.”

“With?”

She ground her teeth slightly, but answered honestly. “Everything.”

For a moment, they were all quiet, standing together in a silence that wasn’t entirely awkward yet still oppressive. It wasn’t until Draco placed his hand upon her stiff shoulder that Snape sighed and spoke again--

“You don’t have the time to grieve for what you’ve lost.”

Which was easy for him to say, this master spy, this expert at compartmentalization and betrayer of Light.

“And I am unqualified to help you do so.”

With a soft breath, Hermione looked up from her robes. Despite the tension in her shoulder and her obvious desire to be away from these men Draco kept his hold firm. The warmth of his palm, the twitch of his fingers, all those small little actions that made him alive and _human_ despite the inhumanity of the man that ruled them all and the actions they’d taken during the war, only reminded her of how, ultimately, the years had tarnished the meaning of what exactly made someone as human as she originally perceived.

She tried not to take comfort in the idea that they all had their faults, that even Snape was not some untouchable machination of taken opportunity. They were all worried, all scared, about this peace He provided.

Good.

“We must work with the hand we’ve been given. Since, even monsters can bleed.” In a moment of uncertainty Snape paused his speech, his lips slightly parted as a tongue peeked out to wet them in contemplation. It was almost childlike in action, perhaps some long-lost habit that only returned when he was truly being careful about his every thought. “Eventually, the weight of it, that _burden…_ ”

The _guilt_ for surviving, for achieving the unachievable, for daring to be content, excited, satisfied, to _need---_

“Feels less like chains attached to your morality.”

And maybe, for Snape, the apprehension toward the idealism of darkness had turned to the pleasure of acknowledgement and achievement long before The Order started falling apart.

Hermione could understand that.

“How--”

A loud sound from the hallway interrupted her speech and she swallowed her question out of an instinctual desire to keep her fears and weaknesses to herself.

That and the fact that she’d been startled by the squeal that came with the loud bang that nearly rattled the walls and forced the foundation of the ancient manor to groan. That was not the sound of a dignified person born to wizarding aristocracy and while Hermione had only been a member of the manor for a short time she knew, without a doubt, that this couldn’t possibly be a regularly happening occurrence. With a sharp inhale, Hermione glanced beyond Snape, whose face was twisted in an obvious sign of his annoyance--an expression that seemed more at home there than his earlier look of contemplation. Yet, there was no surprise there, not even an inkling. Furthermore, even Draco seemed at peace with the odd screech that soon came thereafter, followed by a high-pitched--

“Put. Me. Down!”

“I’ll do whatever I want.”

There was an odd sound in the space then, something akin to a feral rumble, something that made her current company turn toward her with quirked brows and taken-aback expressions--

Oh, it was coming from her, that rolling curling growl, so unlike her.

“S-sorry.”

Yet, it was _her_ voice that made her feel so out of sorts, her very presence that filled her with such conflicting ideas and twisted emotion. It didn’t matter how many times she saw her during her day to day schedule or that initial burst of anger.  Something more, something she couldn’t yet describe, always took her by surprise. It didn’t help that once it faded there was always a sense of displacement, a sense of phantom sensations and mild apprehension all swaddled in nervous excitement.

Excitement, certainly, at the prospect of learning new things, at the knowledge she’d gained through each session attended with her… Dark Arts Professor. Not at the idle twitch of her muscles as she remembered the bite of the Cruciatus Curse, often refreshed--for mere seconds at a time--before each prospective lesson.

She should have hated her for that.

Unfortunately, she oddly couldn’t.

“Bellatrix, I swear--” Narcissa’s voice grew closer, slightly strained, and out of breath, but Hermione didn’t have to wonder why for long. While the men in the household seemed somewhat prepared for the sight the Black sisters made sweeping down the hall, she was unprepared for the absurdity of it.

Given the circumstances it was a little too immature an action for her to properly process. Yet, there they were, both in the robes they’d worn beyond the walls--in the gardens, Hermione reminded herself, that had been Lady Malfoy and Bellatrix out in the gardens--expect one was flung over the shoulder of the other like a sack of potatoes and--

Oh yes, now she remembered, remembered how she’d expressed concern over this sight right before her altercation with Draco.

“Really? Must you two do this now? Here?” Snape’s voice broke through what was quickly becoming high-pitched quarreling and it was enough to draw Bellatrix scowling gaze in his direction, with her slightly narrowed eyes of brown.

“And who said you had to--”

“If you don’t put me down I swear to Merlin I will--”

“So much noise too, always, Bellatrix--”

“Say that again, Severus, say that **again** \--”

Draco, for the most part, said nothing and endured his discomfort like a proper pure-blood should. Hermione was yet to be known as a proper anything, however and held no qualms about interrupting what was quickly becoming a surreal meeting of squabbling adults.

Oddly enough, it made her feel rather mature in comparison--”Excuse me?”

Whatever nasty thing left on the tip of Bellatrix tongue remained trapped there when Narcissa’s hand smacked rather loudly against the front of her face, crushing her nose and lips in a manner most unsightly as the younger sister wriggled and pushed to remove herself from her shoulder.

Face flushed and legs now flailing Narcissa gave one mighty shove and managed to break Bellatrix hold--or maybe, Bellatrix discomfort reached an intolerable level. As soon as her feet touched the ground she whirled on the heel of her shoes and huffed, her blue eyes as focused on her hands as she tried to smooth the wrinkles of her clothing.

“Really, Bella. So childish. If you think that’s the proper way to win an argument--”

“Who was arguing, sister dearest?” Bellatrix interrupted, but her gaze and all its intensity was held steady upon Hermione.

Despite the mild flush that dotted her cheeks due to her harrowing struggle containing her sister and the wide smile that split her lips there was still a powerful predatory air about her, one that never lessened, one that mixed and sparked like flint to wood. It reminded her of fire, so wild, so uncontrollable.

While Narcissa was all ice and scowls--at least for now, “Don’t start that.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Snape gave a flourished wave of hand, “I do hate to interrupt--”

“Do you?” Bellatrix drawled.

“I do,” Snape growled, “but I must, unfortunately. There’s business to attend to back at Hogwarts.”

Now Bellatrix lax expression seemed to change, now her gaze flashed with mild interest while Narcissa looked up from unbuttoning her outside robes.

“Is it…?” Narcissa whispered.

Is it? Is it what?

“Do you live there?” Hermione blurted, though that was the furthest thing from her mind. She wanted to know what ‘it’ was and whether the business was… is… the thing Snape was leaving to attend.

“I do,” Snape replied, with quirked brow and mild frown.

“O-of course you do, yes I’m... I meant to ask about… I meant to ask--”

Her throat felt tight and she was sure her longing was clear. She had not been in Hogwarts since… the war and despite her elevated status she hadn’t been told that such a restriction had been lifted off her person. Something about idle minds and the temptation of doing ill-will activities in a domain that had once fostered rebellious attitudes.

“It will have to wait.” Snape said while he waved a hand in idle dismissal. “You may ask your pressing question some other time.”

“Of course, yes.” She croaked, some part of her uncertain.

“You’ll be back then, for dinner?” Narcissa said, though a peek at Bellatrix expression said she didn’t care whether he returned or not.

“Perhaps.” He answered casually, but the tension in Narcissa’s shoulders seemed to ease at the admission.

And then he was moving on, leaving the room with an oddly empty feeling despite the company she kept.

“Hermione,” Narcissa broke through her thoughts and Draco, with a mild smile, moved to pat her shoulder in warning while his lips mouthed a silent ‘good luck’.

What was that supposed to mean?

“I have been talking with your…. with Bella,” She gently corrected, “about your lack of familiar.”

Now Draco, with raised brows, made haste to shuffle past her and down the hall, easily twisting away from her snatching grasp as she tried to grab hold of anything on his person. The little prat, he knew this was coming, knew something about this line of speech that she should have been more aware of--

“You need one, Hermione. It’s unbecoming of a powerful witch to be without. Well, it’s unbecoming of a Head of House to be without.”

With a dry lick of her lips Hermione clasped her hands together and tried to ignore the crawling sensation of her skin, one easily created by the unshielded heat that ebbed from Bellatrix hungry stare. “I have a familiar.”  

“And they are…?”

“Not… here.” Hermione answered, her brow pinched, “He, Crookshanks, he was….”

In the Burrow, in the Burrow when it burned to the ground, when _she_ came and--

“Luna has tried and unfortunately failed to locate him.” Narcissa spoke slowly, cautiously, perhaps due to the restless motion of Hermione’s hands as they twisted and clenched at one another.

“I can’t. I can’t take another. It’s…” Wrong.

“You must,” Bellatrix purred, “and you will. The bond could do you some good.”

How Bellatrix assumed she could just tell her what to do, when… when they weren't even betrothed… Well, at least not officially, not _yet_ …

“She’s right. A healthy bond with a… new companion could help further develop your magical core.”

Peevishness was not an unfamiliar emotion for her. As a child, she’d worn it as well as her cleverness and even now it seemed difficult to let it go for the sake of maturity. A part of her, that part that fueled the _right_ decisions, knew this to be true. To argue for the sake of arguing would have been a waste of time. Efficiency won out over a sense of loyalty to Crookshanks, but that didn’t make it easy to begrudgingly nod to Narcissa’s assertion. 

“Excellent,” Narcissa smiled brilliantly and for a moment Hermione was surprised by the amount of emotion being offered toward her. She had only been privy to a few moments of warmth from Lady Malfoy--and stiff awkward friendliness from Draco with a little respectful acknowledgement from the often-quiet Lucius. Yet, the longer she remained among the occupants of the manor the more humanity she began to see from them.

The normality was painful to experience, breaking her shaky opinions of predictable ‘evil’.

“What must I do?”

“You’ll go with Cissy to Knockturn Alley,” Bellatrix said, her wicked smile only dampened slightly by the idea she would not be the one to escort Hermione about in public. “There’s a fellow there, Henry Castlewater. He’ll be able to help you. Don’t disappoint me, my pet. There’s much to do when you return so be quick about it. Shouldn’t take long to pick a ickle familiar, should it?”

Hermione fought to keep her expression clear of irritation but something must have shown in the twitch of her eye and the flexing of her hand. Bellatrix was quick to pull back her lips, to flash those perfect teeth before they parted in a full-blown laugh.

“Frustrated, are you? My beloved? 

“--I am your student,” Hermione corrected her, breathing carefully out from flared nostrils before she said, much softer and somewhat unsure-- “Nothing more.”

But Bellatrix only growled, her face a sneer as wild gaze combed her presence in a manner that made her very skin prickle with the feeling of… of something, some pressure, some flesh tingling sense of the intangible pressing against her chest…

“Yes yes, girl. Nothing more, not yet, but soon. Very.”

Then, with little more than a huff, Bellatrix whirled on her heels and stalked down the hall, her cackle enough to pull a shudder from Hermione’s person.

“You’re lucky, you know…” Narcissa whispered, and while her words were for Hermione her gaze was on the retreating swaying backside of her sister, some indescribable reflection of feeling set to glimmer in the depths of her gaze. A feeling Hermione could not read and yet it reminded her with startling clarity that beneath her pure-blood taught appropriateness she was most certainly a Black. Then, with a blink, it was gone. “She’s being very proper.” 

Really?


	10. into trouble

 Henry Castlewater was a peculiar fellow. A bear of a man who played at being unnatural jolly, with an unkempt beard, wildly cut hair, and beady eyes that seemed frozen in a perpetual squint. He laughed quite a lot while toying with the lapel of his purple colored suit-jacket, with its frayed edges and dark splotches--which Hermione supposed were butterbeer stains if the smell surrounding him was anything to go by.

Still, he wasn’t the most unpleasant fellow she’d had the pleasure of meeting with in Knockturn Alley, a space she wouldn’t have dared set foot back in, whether The Dark Lord had left her alone after the war or not.

“Lady Malfoy,” He greeted her with an eerie amount of fondness, an amount that Narcissa did not return if her stoic expression was anything to go by, “It’s a pleasure to see you. After last time--”

“A time we won’t speak about.” Narcissa replied with clipped tones as her hand moved to gently press against the small of Hermione’s back. It was a comforting weight, not entirely necessary but welcomed. In the past, she might have grown tense or at the very least felt coddled but Hermione could see the touch for what it was.

Some political yet subtle motion, no doubt. Since, all too soon Mr. Castlewater snapped his mouth shut and turned his gaze upon her.

“Ah, forgive me.” His smile was more like a sneer, but he wore it well enough. “Here I am, keeping two lovely young ladies out in the cold so that I can babble on about the past.”

With a roll of his shoulders he motioned toward the wooden door behind him, one that appeared impractical considering the crack that ran down the length of it. Its splintered middle wasn’t a deterrent though and Castlewater flashed an array of less than perfect teeth as he pushed it open right at its cracked center. With a groan the door opened, but not in any conventional manner Hermione was prepared for. Clearly, the handle on it was more for decoration since as soon as the man pressed his black stained fingertips to the wood the crack itself split with jagged teeth to let them through.

“Oh,” She croaked, and while Narcissa’s gaze reflected inner amusement her expression never changed from apathetic interest.

“Come along then, right this way.” Castlewater motioned with a limp flop of his wrist and all too soon Hermione was being guided through the entranceway that was more like a maw than an actual door.

She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, exactly. Yet, a clean and well-furnished interior had not been it. The outside of the shop, with its crumbling bricks and soot smeared walls, had been somewhat deceiving. Hermione had pictured an area with patches of functional lightning, cramped cages, and creaky floorboards. The inside--and what an inside--was instead a massive receiving room. Large cathedral ceilings towered up and above her while walls lined with row upon row of squawking creatures took up the bulk of the space. Despite what Hermione had originally assumed was a square design the room she occupied was very circular, with a plush oval carpet the color of coal at its center and a few warm-colored and plush chairs of brown set around it. The cages that spiraled upward lining the room from ceiling to floor differed in size and type of enclosure. From impressively large--with shadowed bulks shuffling around in magically created darkness--to incredibly small. Only one corner seemed bare. No cage in exchange for a glass cabinet holding a colorful firewhiskey collection within.

It was all very cozy and welcoming, for a place in Knockturn Alley. “Narcissa?”

Lady Malfoy moved them further into the room toward the stationed chairs and the floating tea set hovering nearby. “Yes, dear?”

“What is this place?” Hermione said, unable to resist the hand that guided her toward one of the ornament armchairs. “This isn’t--”

“What you expected?” With a firm push upon her shoulder Narcissa had Hermione settled in the chair at her side before she took her own.

Hermione wasn’t sure if she cared for the way Narcissa manipulated her. That subtle touch, firm and unyielding, guided her on a subconscious level she wasn’t entirely aware of. It made her feel young. _Too_ young. She was no longer some child to be pushed and prodded and led. Still, she wasn’t sure if her slightly narrowed gaze or pinched brow was enough for Narcissa to grasp the hint that she could perfectly well place her fanny in a seat by herself.

“Yes,” She hissed as her fingers clutched the arms of her chosen chair and refused to lift and clasp the teacup that hobbled over. A tea-cup she didn’t trust. “I thought this was a pet shop.”

“A familiar shop, dear.” Narcissa whispered, voice lowered and perfectly controlled as Mr. Castlewater hobbled over, wand in hand and greasy smile in place. “Now don’t hiss, it’s rather rude.”

Hermione didn’t have the time to be affronted.

“Now there, Lady Malfoy, Miss….?”

Hermione sat a bit straighter and opened her mouth prepared to reply but Narcissa beat her to it, her voice a striking tone of venom with the swiftness of a viper--

“It’s Lady Granger, Mr. Castlewater. It would be pressing not to forget that.”

For a moment Castlewater was taken aback. His lips flopped open and closed in mockery of an airless fish. His throat muscles bulged and his cheeks lost their reddish parlor. Yet, it was his eyes that tugged at Hermione’s curiosity. It was how the pupils seemed to grow large and tremble as shadows danced behind them.

“It’s fine, really.” Hermione tried to bring him peace but he only swallowed nervously and began to blink rapidly.

“N-no, my lady,” he stammered, “I’ve made a slight against you. I wasn’t aware--”

“You were aware,” Narcissa challenged, “I’m rather certain Lady Black warned you.”

“Well yes but, to see her here instead of her representative--”

“And why wouldn’t I bring her? It is her familiar after all, I want to make sure they bond properly.”

“It’s just that--”

“--I find it hard to believe you just conveniently forgot Lady Granger’s appropriate title. I think you aren’t taking this as seriously as you should.”

“I assure you, Lady Malfoy, I am very serious.”

With quirked brow Hermione watched them, or rather she watched Narcissa--noticed the quirk of her lips and the sensual lick of them thereafter as she made Castlewater fidget, sweat, and squirm for her amusement, all in the name of her newly procured Firstborn titles.

“Then you should prove it.” Narcissa said, emphasizing the harsh snap of her words with a wild jerk of hand that sent her nearby hovering cup spinning toward him. “Stop wasting our time and address His Chosen properly.”

She shivered, unable to repress the wicked _thrill_ that shot up her spine when Castlewater barely caught the wayward cup and swallowed harshly. All this over a misspoken ‘miss’? This fear? This trembling? This orchestration as the bumbling man lowered himself upon bended knee and bowed so deeply his nose practically touched the floor?

All in the name of the honor and pride Narcissa had vehemently defended for her. Honor Hermione had forgotten was worth defending.

“It’s… fine.” She croaked again, but the heavy weight of Narcissa’s hand cupping her own kept any other words trapped in her throat. Yet, Hermione was sensitive to so much more about her normally composed company. The squeeze of her hand that turned from firm to painful, that slightly wild glimmer that swam in the depths of Narcissa’s intense gaze, so pointedly focused on the balding round head of their subjugated company as she took pleasure in his humiliation. It was overwhelming to see it there, lurking within this icy woman. It took her breath away.

“My Lady, Head of the House of Granger, I apologize for my disrespect. I was not aware that you would be coming personally and had not adequately prepared for your arrival.” He wheezed, all breathy and nervous with a tone that made her stomach clench in an odd mix of discomfort and to inappropriate to acknowledge. “I am here to humbly serve you.”

It was now more clear than ever from Narcissa’s answering sneer that she was not fond of Mr. Castlewater, and maybe that was why she made him subject himself to such actions. She kept him there for what felt like a while--though ultimately there had only been but a few seconds of awkward silence left to stretch between them--before she released Hermione’s throbbing hand and gave a sigh of exasperation.

Just like that she was back. Refined, noble, and controlled. Gone was the intensity from her gaze, replaced with disinterest and carefully practiced boredom. The fine tremble that had been in the power of her grasp disappeared and perfectly manicured fingertips motioned toward the hovering tea-kettle with an impatient snap.

“That’s enough. Honestly Henry, I don’t know why my sister puts up with you.”

The insult was there and rather clear in the words but they were spat with some familiarity, as if this was not the first time an occurrence of this nature had taken place. It was odder then that Henry rose from his knees to his full height with a nervous smile and deep puffing breaths. “I do good business here, my lady. Really good business.”

“Then please get to it.” Narcissa drawled, but it was clear she was done harassing him about his earlier misstep.

He took a moment to dab the sweat from his brow with a brown stained handkerchief before throwing his full attention on Hermione. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “I’m going to bring my finest, Lady Granger. Please wait here.”

With a flick of his wand and a mumbled incantation the cages around them began to rattle. They shifted forward slowly before some of the cages slid back into place, as if some large magical hand were cataloging through organized parchment.

“Now, what would fit you best?” He mumbled, “We have to make sure there’s a connection. Some spark that brings out the potential, you see.”

Finally, a cage slipped out from the wall just as a fresh tea-cup hovered to Narcissa’s open hand. Another quickly followed the first cage, then another thereafter, but they didn’t lower just yet from their space above them.

“A decent familiar can make a decent witch, you know.” His tone took on a slightly excited tint, rushed past lips with a hint of passion, “But a great familiar? Well, one has to wonder how Dumbledore was so great at what he did, right?”

There’s a strained chuckle then and a soft intake of breath from Hermione, who hadn’t heard that name uttered--not aloud, at least--in sometime but one quick glance at Narcissa, who was intently watching her, was enough to make her swallow the emotion that fought to rise to the surface.

She felt nothing for him now. Hadn’t for six years. She couldn’t afford to.

“When a wizard and his familiar are as one, a perfect match, you can feel it here.” Henry pounded on his chest as a few more cages pulled themselves from the wall. “Right in in your core. Your magic sings and it hums and--”

He paused for a moment before he released a wheezing laugh, “Here I am, boring you to death with the details.”

But that wasn’t true, Hermione was rather interested. Even this, his idle ramblings, was educational. It wasn’t that she wasn’t aware of the benefits of a familiar, she’d had one. Yet, his raw explanation hinted at things she’d never truly felt before. Yes, she’d loved Crookshanks dearly and had felt terribly lonely after her search had proved fruitless but that was all she’d felt. Not this miraculous song of magic and harmony Henry proclaimed took place. 

“Aye, either way it’s just as important, really important, to have a great familiar. It heightens the ability. Brings out the potential. Not to mention the bond.” Finally, a collection of cages were assembled above them and with a soft sound of acknowledgement they slowly began to lower. “Well, you’ll see what I mean.”

 He took some time to rub his chin as he stared at the cages, cages that Hermione found difficult to peer into due to whatever magic kept their cargo indistinguishable—and the cluttered nature in which they floated. She figured it was to protect the animals from theft should something rare find itself in a cage. Yet, right now, all it did was raise her anxiety and make her want to fidget.

 “How about a frog--”

 “A frog? Really, Henry?” Narcissa’s voice was a cold chill at Hermione’s side swaddled in an unsatisfied hiss. “You would give His Chosen a _frog?_ ”

 “A-aha, no no, now let’s not get hasty.” Hermione watched his shoulders bunch and the back of his neck grow flushed with red as he waddled toward the cages, patting their tops which seemed to peel back the shroud of darkness they wore. “Just a suggestion, is all. Everyone needs a starting point.”

 “It was a poor one.” Narcissa said.

 “How about a cat,” Hermione suggested, trying to keep the peace, and running thin on patience.

 “Ah, I’ve plenty of those!” Henry responded, still just jolly enough and properly recovered from his brief chastisement.

 So, Hermione watched with mild regret--regret for losing Crookshanks, for not looking hard enough, for not _caring_ badly enough--as various types of cages floated past her in a magically assisted parade. Though his clutch of cats of all assorted breeds were impressive, impressive enough that she paused before when she spied a cat devoid of fur--a Sphynx, he’d called it--she felt no sudden impulsive connection. Furthermore, there weren’t any kneazles of the full or half variety to boot. She didn’t even feel a sudden want for attachment like she had so long ago for Crookshanks. Eventually they had to move on from cats and soon she was subjected to look at all assortments of lizards, turtles, birds, spiders, rats--no, absolutely not-- and a ferret or two.

 “Is this all that you have?” Narcissa asked, but her voice lacked its biting edge in turn for concerned disappointment.

 “No, ‘course not.” He mumbled, “But some of my creatures aren’t really familiar material, you know.”

 “I’m not saying bring out the dragons.” Narcissa snapped.

And all too soon they were quarreling again in tight clipped voices and stuttered assurances of the absolute best service in all of Great Britain. It was nearly enough to make Hermione sigh aloud in a manner more petulant than gracious. It was definitely enough to make her rise into a stand as she’d been a prisoner of that chair for far too long. Before Narcissa could order her to stay put she was soon taking to the cages herself. She could find her own familiar, she didn’t need anyone to hold her hand through some mystical choosing process. This wasn’t like selecting a wand.

Just beyond the oval circle the cages hovered, perfectly level with her eyesight and fully visible. It was easy enough to weave through the haphazardly floating collection, smiling here and there at a choice word from Narcissa or a stuttered excuse from Henry but it wasn’t until she was somewhat further from her company that she paused to stare in their direction. They weren’t paying her much attention, not that they needed to she wasn’t a child, but there was something naughty about walking among someone else's stock of procured creatures unattended that made her smile. The impulse to release a few of them into the space was something particularly wicked.

“And wouldn’t a few of you like that?” Hermione cooed as she drew a fingertip down along the glass enclosure of a caged spider. “To cause a bit of chaos? To be a bit wild?”

She bit her bottom lip and swallowed a cackle. Perhaps her lessons were… changing her more than she originally thought. Especially those long torturous nights with Bellatrix, where madness often tempted her with promises of power and _feeling._

“Stop it.” She whispered to herself, blinking away memories of straining muscles and howling screams--sounds she made each night, sounds that were torn from her body as she gave Bellatrix her agony and her reluctant mind.

Then with a soft sigh she turned with all the intention of returning to the circle… but a sound caught her ears, some soft almost hissing purr, like rolling wheels over gravel. She took a soft breath and tilted her ear, certain she’d heard a cart being pulled beyond their walls, but that rumble seemed… insistent and to close.

She turned toward the sound, breath held as she combed the various cages with narrowed eyes. One step, then another, and soon she walked along the floating line while her ink-stained fingertips trailed across metal bars but more often glass. Each step took her deeper into the collection. Each step a little further away from the rumbling voices and closer to the large imposing wall that held so many others--all of them, crying out for an owner. Crying out at the injustice of their imprisonment 

Her heart was a trapped thing in her chest but she wasn’t one to falter nor was she a coward. The rumble was somewhat clear here, the purr unlike anything she’d ever heard before and if she focused, if she dared to close her eyes, she could hear something more. Words? Strung together sounds that seemed slurred and--

“What is it…?” She whispered, unsure whether she was talking to the animals around her or herself.

No answer came, nothing tangible, just those soft sounds that were more like hissed whispers and the call of the animals around her that nearly overlapped them. If only they would be _silent_ so that she could _hear_ \--

 Then she gasped, jerked to a halt as if pulled by invisible strings. She was at the furthest wall, a sea of floating cages between herself and the company at her back yet unlike the cages that towered above and around her the one she’d stopped at was half-in half-out of its perfect little slot. It was tipped forward precariously and Hermione wasn’t exactly sure if there were precautions in place to prevent the cage from sliding out fully and crashing to the marble floor but that was hardly the reason she’d paused before it.

 No, that humming hissing sound had stopped and she really had nowhere else to go, no more leads to follow.

Yet, when she tossed a quick glanced into the cage what she saw was unusual. It was just a nest with a rather large egg at its center instead of some living breathing creature. Some red speckled thing colored a dirty cream. An all-around rather unattractive oddity. But it wasn’t the look of it that drew her touch.

_It’s warm_ , she thought, though her own mental voice seemed far away, almost dreamy or was that bored? She wasn’t sure and she idly thought her desire the touch the cage could be due to the fact that it was peeking out and should probably be rescued. There was no other logical explanation for why she reached out otherwise.

With a press of her fingertips and the intention to right the cage she pushed. The glass enclosure didn’t budge. Instead--

The world swung sideways and her magic flared. Heat, unbearable and vicious, whipped through her limbs as if summoned for war. Her heart was a jackhammer, a rattling pumping organ that ached as her lungs tightened and her fingers--oh Merlin, her fingers--twitched and spasmed on their own, clutching the sides of the cage with a strength she hadn’t known she had. Her breath left her in a rush but she seemed incapable of capturing it again. In the span of a few moments she forgot how to breath, how to function. She forgot she had limbs, a mind, a body. She forgot she had flesh, an identity, a _purpose._ All that she was, all that she felt she could be, was magic. Pulsing thumping magic. Wild and without direction. 

And it was ecstasy.

There’s a screech nearby--a bird in a cage--and a yelp of discomfort and fear--Henry, perhaps--but it was all inconsequential. She was _magic_ , and magic held no care for effects and actions. It only cared for feeling, for intent, for feral brutality and thirst. This magic, her magic, was starving and stirred and nothing mattered in that moment except finding some sort of release--

A scraping sound rattled in her ears, and then a crash while the cage in her grip began to literally crack and splinter. The glass trembled as the magic that had created it tried to hold, but it was nothing in comparison to the heat that she held, nothing compared to her mindless force, and it shattered easily with the rest of the construct once the magic was free.

Then suddenly she could breathe again. Her chest heaved and her lungs worked hard. She could feel sweat drip down her forehead, feel it slip past her lids and sting her wide-open eyes. Every nerve felt raw, too warm, while her skin felt too tight and off--this was her body, wasn’t it? She had a body, didn’t she? Because she was a witch, a human, a being of flesh and muscle and bone not energy and wilderness.

She stumbled back as a voice called her name, worried and high-pitched, but her attention was focused on the weight in her hands, the hot large egg she clutched between them.

And the fact that every single cage in the room was now loose from their slots, floating freely and without proper order and direction.

“Aaah!!” Henry cried out, with open mouth and hands that pulled at his cheeks. There was chaos all around him, haphazardly floating cargo and a mess of shattered glass and broken chairs. Narcissa stood among the carnage, her expression somewhat serene among the obvious damage, but her cheeks were flushed and her lips slightly parted in the beginnings of a smile more malicious than congratulatory.

The fancy cabinet with its firewhiskey was no more, the enchanted tea-pot lay slain and leaking at her feet, but Narcissa looked like a goddess at the center of the bulk of the wreckage, enjoying the sacrifice that was Henry’s sanity.

“Oh, Merlin no,” While Hermione wallowed in confusion and embarrassment, “I am so sorry, I… have no idea what just happened.”

She hoped Henry could hear the sincerity in her voice, could place her fear and guilt, but he was a frozen statue of mortification as the animals raged around them, shaking their prisons with enough force that Hermione wasn’t sure if the magic holding them in would hold.

Narcissa’s twinkling laughter, so playful and innocent, seemed completely out of place but it soothed some tight worried portion of Hermione and her grip on her pilfered egg eased. “I’m sure Henry understands, don’t you, Henry?”

He didn’t respond when Narcissa gave him a light pat on his back nor did he respond when Narcissa carefully withdrew her wand and moved it with a casual flare to force the hovering cages out of her path.

“Hermione, my dear.” Narcissa cooed, sounding incredibly pleased. If Hermione had doubted Narcissa’s dislike of Henry before, she didn’t now. “What have you found here?”

No voice came forth when she tried to speak so she merely lifted the egg toward her current caretaker.

“Ah…” Narcissa murmured. “How pretty.”

Hermione thought the thing rather ugly, actually. Nonetheless, she’d grown attached to the watermelon sized egg, that much was certain.

Narcissa gave the egg an experimental tap with her wand and Hermione tried not to let the tension that ripped through her shoulders at the action be seen.

“Stop.” She demanded, unsure why she felt so uncomfortable with Narcissa’s careless action, but the other woman only deepened her smile.

“We’ll take this one then.” She called over her shoulder but her gaze, a gaze that reflected a hunger so painfully familiar Hermione sucked in a breath and closed her eyes, was focused entirely on her.

“B-but… the shop.” Hermione whispered.

The other woman leaned forward and easily matched her height as lips brushed against her ear-- “It will be taken care of.”

When she leaned back Hermione finally opened her eyes only to peer at her prize.

“Narcissa--”

“It’s time to go--” She interrupted, lifting a finger to press gently against Hermione’s lips. “We have what we came for.”

Before Hermione could speak again, Narcissa hooked her arm within her own and called out playfully—“Goodbye, Mr. Castlewater.”

Then they were gone.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Hermione could hear Bellatrix laughter from her place within the library. Her vicious cackle more than enough to make her shudder and clutch her quill a bit tighter as she tried to recount her experience in Mr. Castlewater shop with enough detail and proper recollection. Immediately, upon arriving back at Malfoy Manor, she’d been told to write down her ‘episode’. That had been easy enough, but having to relinquish the egg they’d taken to Narcissa had been… difficult. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off the other witch as she created a safe and--warm, Hermione had told her, it had to be very warm--heated enclosure. Yet, as soon as Narcissa had carefully placed the egg’s new cage in her quarters some jumpy portion of her had settled.

Perfect.

Then it was down to the library and the frowning Bellatrix who wondered what had taken so long in a loud and condescending way. Narcissa had been nice enough to tell Bellatrix about their visit in the hallway as not to disrupt Hermione’s retelling as she scribbled away. Either Bellatrix found the entire story, and Mr. Castlewater’s pain, delightful or she found Hermione’s accidental bout of magic pathetic enough to cackle about.

Hermione certainly didn’t understand why she’d lost control. An enchanted cage shouldn’t have been strong enough to trigger a complete breakdown of training and expertise. She was not eleven, far from it, nor had she been emotionally strained during her encounter. So why… why would her body suddenly decide that touching a cage was a catalyst for social disaster?

Not to mention the sounds she had heard in the shop itself. The sounds that had led her to the cage, she supposed, or had been stopped due to her distraction. She wasn’t sure about the answer but figured she’d write it all down either way.

“Pet,” Bellatrix sighed from the doorway, though her exasperation was fake and her body language far too relaxed to be disappointment.

She knew what Bellatrix looked like when she was disappointed. All fire and brimstone and lashing storms.

“Yes, Professor.” Hermione said with tight voice.

The other woman only snorted softly, somewhat irritated by Hermione’s proper address but it had done very little to lessen that demanding air about her.

“You took your time.”

“Not intentionally.” Hermione answered carefully.

Bellatrix gave a slow lick of her lips, an action Hermione couldn’t help but watch, “So you say.”

“It’s the truth,” She swallowed somewhat anxiously, “Nothing called out to me.”

“Narcissa begs to differ.”

Hermione doubted Narcissa hardly begged, “I’m not sure what that was about, if I’m honest.”

Bellatrix took it upon herself to saunter over, her graceful stalk doing nothing to lessen Hermione’s anxiety, but she knew this game and had played it before. Beyond their makeshift classroom, in between Hermione’s other lessons, Bellatrix often took it upon herself to keep her company no matter how much Hermione scowled and sneered. She was used to this… this odd form of courting, these strange tense preliminary stages where Bellatrix poked and prodded and Hermione snarled and reacted.

Where she sometimes relented, where she let Bellatrix _infect_ her sensibilities and dampen her logic.

“I’m teaching you to feel,” She’d say, this demon, her future betrothed

And that was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

So, it was difficult to repress her tremble when Bellatrix slid onto the couch beside her and even more so to keep her breath even when the older witch leaned over to rest her chin upon her shoulder.

“Something has changed,” She whispered, warm breath against her neck, words set to tickle her ear. “I can feel it, I can _smell_ it. The magic. It’s trapped beneath your skin.”

“Impossible,” Hermione said, breathless. “It’s… impossible to smell magic, to see it--”

“So foolish… Perhaps your juvenile notions and poor _Light_ understanding of magic have told you so but that isn’t the case.” Her hiss was right against her neck, her lips so close to her fluttering pulse. “You will learn this not from a book, girl, but from me.”

Hermione swallowed and sucked in a deep breath, “Impossible.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bellatrix growled and that was enough to pull a soft sound from Hermione, a sound that spoke little of fear and only of unsatisfied fervor. Bellatrix soft response of interest thereafter was quickly covered by her words. “You’ll care for the egg either way, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, lost for a moment in the touch of Bellatrix hand as she placed it against her thigh, “but I don’t even know what it is.”

“That is a problem,” Bellatrix murmured, but she clearly cared little about it. “You’ll solve it.”

She didn’t have a choice, to be precise.

They sat like that for a while, Hermione with her trembling hand as she tried to flesh out her grimoire passage as she wrote against its levitating form and Bellatrix with her exploring fingers and lightly scratching nails. It was soothing, despite the mild pain they caused from a pinch here or a scratch there and she was lucky that the cloth of her pants kept her captured thigh safe for the most part while Bellatrix curious breath blew patterns through her tangled curls. It wasn’t until the other witch gripped her in a rather hard manner that she jerked and drew in a harsh breath.

“Bellatrix,” Hermione growled, swallowing the building rolling desire to cause her pain, to squeeze something too hard on her company and watch her bow to the sensation.

“You have something that belongs to me, pet.” Bellatrix hissed, but there was mirth in her threat.

“What,” Hermione scowled, irritated by the interruption, and confused by the statement.

“Don’t play ignorant, girl.” Now the hand upon her thigh reached out across her body, tickling fingers that sought out her writing arm and gripped it possessively. She tugged it forward, drawing the quill slightly across the parchment to Hermione’s extreme displeasure but the sudden sensation of teeth biting into her earlobe silenced any complaints she might have had.

With a careless motion, Bellatrix easily manipulated her arm and without much flare used her other hand to pull back the sleeve and reveal her _marks._ With a departing playful tug to her captured earlobe Bellatrix sat up as if to get a good look at the work done upon her flesh. She seemed enchanted by it, the Dark Mark that lingered above the crude and cursed carving that once proclaimed her former status. It was but one of many scars she’d maintained from the war, something that only filled her with a numb sensation of acknowledgement once upon a time. Now though, now whenever she saw it she wasn’t sure what exactly she felt. Disgust, fear, trepidation? None of those words quite expressed the sensation that curled through her belly or the heat that pounded behind her skull. Now, whenever Bellatrix breath caught her own did as well.

“Bellatrix…” She mumbled, throat dry and voice soft. She’d meant to put more conviction into her statement, more anger. She lacked the ability to do so, just like she lacked the ability to pull her arm away.

The older witch sucked in a deep breath and soon her other hand was tapping along the Dark Mark--inspiring little tingles of pleasure, soft blossoming notions of pride, of _loyalty_ , that she tried to swallow past and ignore--before it rested fully on her _scar_.

“That night, when we shared something very intimate,” Bellatrix wore a rather odd smile, one that dripped impious fascination, “and your little _friends_ came to save you. You took something from me then, two somethings…”

Bellatrix leaned forward and that prompted Hermione to lean backwards, to escape her, to not be drawn into the darkness of her tone or the storms that brewed in her gaze. But eventually there was no more room and with the arm of the couch digging into her back and Bellatrix hovering slightly over her front she felt… trapped.

“My knife, girl,” The woman purred, her face so close, the heat of her body nearly unbearable, “and my wand.”

Hermione lifted her free hand and attempted to press it against Bellatrix shoulder as she turned her head and tightly clenched her eyes. Yes, the wand, the wand she’d been forced to use up until the Battle of Hogwarts. The knife she’d carried despite the fact it had slaughtered Dobby. Even then some part of her, some twisted angry part, hot with rage and grief, had wanted to use it against her. Perhaps, she’d thought, in her most private of moments, she could carve into Bellatrix with as much meticulous care as she had done to her. But the wand had been a different story, something she’d had to use after her own had been lost to her. Something that had felt _wrong_ in her grip as it fought her, tried to fill her up with metaphysical oil and suffocate her magic right before it sputtered and--

“Where are they girl? My precious things?” Bellatrix’s whisper was harsh against her ear, demanding, oppressive. “I know you have them, beloved. Give them to me.”

Her breath came in pants but she managed to sputter--”S-silver box.”

She wasn’t sure why she gave away that information. Wasn’t sure why she’d even kept the tools she’d stolen after she’d been released those odd six years ago. Maybe, back then, nobody had cared. There’d been too much work to do, too many Ministry officials to kill and replace. To many laws to twist and ideals to express. One former Golden Girl—The-Boy’s _Mudblood_ , they’d called her, those quick turn-coat Aurors, stripping her of her name and value--with no power and no direction and dead friends could keep whatever she’d found, they must have thought. And Hermione, well she’d had no hope, no desire to fight, only to die as she rotted away in that cell with her haunting thoughts and the stench of the dead thick on her robes.

It wasn’t until her release, when she’d slipped from her cage and the world hadn’t burned, that she’d found a fierce desire to live and to _hoard_. That was why she’d kept them, that was why she’d made the silver box, and when she’d been allowed to purchase a new wand she had found herself unable to get rid of it. That box had haunted her for a time but soon that too had been forgotten.

But Bellatrix, she never forgot.

“Silver box?” She repeated, only pausing in speech draw her moist tongue across a trembling neck.

“My room.” She gasped with narrowed eyes. Bellatrix teeth were becoming a distraction, one that nibbled and nipped along her pulse, threatening to bite just a bit too hard, to free the life trapped there.

“Within the manor? Not back at that filthy crate you once called your home?”

Hermione tried to find the strength to be offended--she’d liked that ‘crate’, it had been safe, secure, _hers--_ but such things seemed irrelevant once Bellatrix fingertips began to tickle along her ribs.

“Yesss!” She hissed, “Upstairs… G-get off.”

This was all so very very improper.

However, Bellatrix seemed to neither care nor bother with any sense of appropriateness.

“You did then, you kept them?” There was slight surprise in her tone as she leaned up and away from her, only to straddle her shortly thereafter.

The weight of her, the heat of her, even her smell, was simply too much to easily deny and Hermione found her hands--now free--soon full of the skirts bunched at Bellatrix hips. “I did.”

They were silent together, Bellatrix peach-toned hands exploring the darker flesh of her slightly exposed belly, toying with the very edge of the scar tissue Hermione had maintained from her near-death experience at the Battle of the Ministry. While Hermione relaxed and half-hearted tried to tug her rising blouse down and over whatever Bellatrix kept trying to touch.

“Good girl,” Bellatrix whispered, her tone thick with predatory elation, but Hermione only shivered from the praise and did her best to repress a crooked smile.

The sudden burning of the Dark Mark helped with that.

“Ow!” Hermione bucked slightly, her brow pinched and her teeth on display from a scowl she didn’t bother to hide.

“He calls!” Bellatrix whispered, throat tight with feverish worship.

“He-he calls?!” Hermione responded, mildly panicked.

“He calls, he calls, he calls!” Bellatrix sung, her tone playfully immature, her song thick with fanatical intention, and dripping gluttony. “Quickly, quickly!”

Hermione barely had time to rise from the couch once Bellatrix rolled off her and onto the floor, all giggles and ferociousness, like a god preparing for slaughter.

Bellatrix snatched up her hand and then they were gone with only Hermione’s squeak left to echo in their wake.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The pop that announced their arrival from side-apparition was barely audible. Any envious thought generated by Bellatrix expert ability was soon washed away by the unnerving sensation of her body coming back together right behind her navel. She swallowed harshly and blinked the watery blur from her vision, reminding herself that she still had all her toes and all her fingers despite the world tilting sensation of magical rearrangement. Bellatrix, in retrospect, seemed entirely unaffected by their travel method and she was quick to guide Hermione forward through the darkness toward Morgana-only-knew-what.

“Are we still in the manor?” She croaked, not necessarily happy about being led blindly toward what could have been her orchestrated doom. “Because, if so, we could have _walked here._ ”

Bellatrix only respond was a grunted-- “How cheeky.” Before the room was sharply bathed in light.

Bellatrix grip on her shoulder tightened and Hermione barely had enough time to raise an arm to shield her eyes before the burning sting of too much _white_ tingled across her retinas. After a time, she finally lowered her arm, happy to see that the lights had dimmed down to a tolerable level and that the room itself was absent of any unnatural oddities--such as dangling chains or living floors. Though, that didn’t make it any less spectacular to behold.  

“This way,” Bellatrix motioned, prodding Hermione along until her feet moved her forward again. Out into the open, out toward the elaborate long carpet of deep scale green that cut a path down the center of obsidian floors. Out toward the immaculate throne of bone white stone draped in furs of grey and black. This was not some cozy and intimate space, ornamentally decorated to wow and awe polite company. This was a throne room, a space to hold court, a throwback to a time where Muggles bowed before Lords and the law was dictated by one lone being.

How incredibly fitting.

They stalked as one down the length of the carpet, down toward the empty throne and it’s raised dais but paused right before the center of the room which was host to a stone pit that held glistening black coal. There Bellatrix left her, giving her some time alone as she prowled about with childish giggles and ever widening smile.

“Magnificent, is it not?” She whispered, but Hermione was yet able to reply. Her eyes were watching the walls, the way they seemed to pulse and ripple, gently moving the hanging banners that proudly displayed Slytherin House colors and emblem.

When she found her voice, she stammered a reply, not surprised by the echo that bounced around her-- “I suppose.”

“Normally we’d sit over there.” Bellatrix came around the other side of the pit and motioned toward a collection of raised couches that were strategically placed on either side of the throne in carefully marked boxes as if this were an opera-house theater and not a place of business. “Only His most trusted, right at His side.”

While Hermione held her narrowed gaze upon the couches Bellatrix had managed to sneak upon her and soon she was subjected to the woman at her back, to the full length of her body pressed tightly against her and her nose buried among the tangled locks of her hair. Despite their difference in height Bellatrix fit snuggly against her, none-to-bothered by the extra three inches Hermione lorded over her.

With tilted head and a slight shiver Hermione listened to her whisper-- “When the unworthy come before Him on bended knee we watch, waiting, hungry, contemplative. It’s all so exciting, when there’s judgement to be pass. You see, we get to decide. We’re His counsel, His precious Wizengamot.”

Hermione gave a nod of understanding, her eyes wide as she finally took in the overall purpose of the space. Though the layout had changed--if barely--the room was still the same in structure. High benches had been replaced with but a few couches on three floors that surrounded the immediate area of His throne. The rest of the area was open, just empty space for the general public to gawk like vultures. To crowd around with frank curiosity or austere expressions while His Inner Circle looked down on them all from the political safety of their appointed boxes, their procured _seats_ giving them more power than any one man should maintain.

This was His courthouse in the bowels of The Ministry.

“Come now,” Bellatrix whispered, her voice strained with excitement. “Let us take our seats.”

“O-our seats?” Hermione squeaked, a reaction due to Bellatrix particularly rough poke into her side.

“Yes girl.” Bellatrix hissed, agitated perhaps by a lack of initial reaction before she gave Hermione a hard shove in the direction of the right-side of the throne.

“I… I don’t have any seats!” Hermione babbled.

“Of course you don’t, girl. Not yet, but soon. You’re the Head of your House, after all.”

“But I’m no noble.” Hermione grunted, forced to step up onto the small staircase that led to the second and third floor of the three layered boxed seats.

Bellatrix made a sound of mild disbelief, and that was all the answer Hermione needed.

“Don’t give me that. I’m just--”

“Granger, here now, hush girl.” Bellatrix interrupted, perhaps fed up with her ignorance. “I thought that Lovegood girl would explain this to you…”

With pinched brow Bellatrix gave a tap on one of the boxed areas. The door swung open with a small _snap,_ revealing the plush interior within. Green carpet--typical--a small see-through globe hosting a suspicious brown liquid in a long-flared tube with a trio of glasses, and a long black couch that looked rather uncomfortable this close.

“Take off your shoes. Quickly now. Sit.”

Hermione wasn’t sure why she was being rushed. No one was there _yet_ but, she did as she was told, quickly removing her simplistic flats before taking a seat on the couch with rod-straight back and hands folded upon her lap.

Oh.

She was wrong, the couch was incredibly comfortable--

“A cushion charm goes a long way, pet. I’m glad you’ve noticed.” With a huff Bellatrix flopped onto the couch and pressed against her side. “You’ll need more time with Cissy, she’s better at explaining these things.”

“What things, exactly?” Against her will Hermione found herself melting into the warmth Bellatrix provided, even as they sat alone in what must have been some elaborate courtroom in the Ministry.

“Things like this,” She waved a hand toward the overall space, “Political things. Boring things.”

“You think political intrigue is boring?” Hermione couldn’t help but smile.

“Unnecessary,” Bellatrix sniffed, “I’m a woman of action, you know. His word is all that matters, no one else's.”

Hermione gave a snort at that, finding blind obedience to be… an inconvenience at best.

“However,” Bellatrix hissed, having caught her petulant stare, “I appreciate the point of considering differing opinions.”

In a crude slouch, Bellatrix extended her arm, resting it against the back of the couch as she grinned rather broadly. For one split moment Hermione saw clarity, a deeper understanding swaddled in madness, a startling amount of intelligence twisted toward the benefit of something darker.

“Stagnation is born from a lack of creativity and progression, and eventually, any one person can run out of both. A likeminded collective with a mixture of ideals but an underlying foundation can help build a stronger empire.” She tugged lightly at Hermione’s hair, causing her to grunt, but not from pain. “He respects more than just our individual talents and skills, though I’m certain it pleases Him that we are also unquestioningly obedient and efficient with our craft.”

She slowly licked her lips, a stunning part of Bellatrix features Hermione once more found her eyes draw to. Yet, the words that came from them still held her attention, even as she wondered how soft they might have been. “I follow Him because He is aware that some of us, not all of us--” Here she sneered, nearly gripped by some intangible memory-- “are intelligent and that is not an aspect of our being he’d allow to go to waste just because we submit and bow.”

“He cares? Truly?” Hermione found that difficult to believe. “He cares about--”

“Power, efficiency, and our traditional structure, which appeals to the magical community thus maintaining the order and control He seeks. Yes, girl, but that doesn’t make one incapable of comprehension and understanding.”

She wanted to ask more, to really understand the information Bellatrix was trying to impart to her, but the woman had moved on leaving behind ideas that the Dark Lord was not inherently selfish.

“And it’s that understanding that allows Him to control a group of the most powerful witches and wizards of this time.”

_Including you._

Hermione jerked, her breath trapped and held within tight lungs, but the idle brush of Bellatrix mind against her own seemed to fade as quickly as it appeared.

She exhaled, “He understands that a curse or two will keep a witch or wizard in line. That fear--”

“Is best used for the trash that cannot accept change and order. Discipline is not inherently evil.” Bellatrix whispered, right before she nuzzled along Hermione’s collarbone. “And you know this… you felt it.”

The only answer she managed was a shudder and a sharp gasp.

“But enough of this… We don't have much time.”

“For what?” Hermione gasped.

“A short lesson. A very short lesson.” Bellatrix sat up abruptly, leaning away from her neck, which seemed to be a very attractive part of Hermione’s body if Bellatrix lingering attention there was anything to go by. “You are currently seated in the Black and Malfoy box.”

Clearing the idle thoughts from her mind she looked around their space. Besides them, where a small barrier might have been, was an open space that led into the box there--something similarly decorated.

“We occupy the third ring--that’s the title of this floor, girl--closest to the Dark Lord on His right side. Do you understand what that means?”

With a quick click of tongue against the back of her teeth she responded-- “We’re important.”

“More than that--”

“We’ve collected an abundance of political power based on the combination of our House seats. Furthermore, by being on His right side, that sends a signal to others that our word is of far more importance than that of, say, some other peon on this left.”

Bellatrix smile was brilliant and welcomed, even if it represented nothing kind. “Ah, so you are the brightest witch of your age.”

Hermione scowled and flushed red, “Don’t patronize me.”

“Hush girl,” Bellatrix cooed, but it was clear she felt no remorse after her teasing. “The levels don’t mean much. Malfoy is just fond of looking down his nose on the less than fortunate. It’s the closeness to our Lord that’s important.”

Bellatrix tapped a finger on the front of her box before she pointed at the couch slightly below them-- “Snape.” She sniffed, less than pleased but there was little maliciousness in her tone. Hermione had a feeling Bellatrix was not as irritated by his existence as she made out to be.

She then casually listed a few of the Inner Circle and their place in retrospect to her own, skipping over a few boxes that had emblems but, presumably, hadn’t been occupied in sometime. Ultimately, their current side only held nine boxes, boxes that could be rearrange, combined, expanded, or divided if needed and only three were currently occupied by permanent residents. Malfoy and Black at the top, Snape below them, and the rest of the boxes without assignment--only the odd but unexplained emblems. Meanwhile, on the left, the majority of the Inner Circle who had managed to gain seats of nobility were placed, along with a family or two of great importance.

“Parkinson Sr. is over there, second row, right above Greyback.” Bellatrix laughed softly at some unspoken joke before shaking her hand and motioning toward the throne--“Meanwhile, the Minister usually stands on the second step of the dais to the left of the Dark Lord. Otherwise, he can sit in his box on the bottom row, closest to His throne.”

Hermione was grateful for the quick lesson, anything to ease her ignorance-- “And my own seats?”

“Yet to be earned, I assume.” Bellatrix smiled none-to-kindly, “But when they are…”

Her growl was enough to pull something low in Hermione’s belly, to inspire a wave of liquid fire that was drawn from her quickened heartbeat to settle comfortably at her core.

“You will combine them with the House of Black, furthering our status.”

Bellatrix breathy whisper seemed to indicate so much more than just a combination of house seats-- “So why am I… allowed to sit here now?”

“I’m courting you.” Bellatrix deadpanned, as if that were the best answer possible to provide to Hermione’s inquiry. “And you are His Chosen. He wouldn’t have you stand among the crowd like a common trinket.”

“And what of--” A loud pop to their right made her swallow her words. For a time, it had seemed like only they would occupy the large courthouse and despite its massiveness it had afforded Hermione an illusion of privacy. Other than their lessons, where imparting information about the Dark Arts was a mandatory imperative, Bellatrix wasn’t one for such insightful conversation. Even now Hermione could see her desire to speak further about houses and political importance fade as irritation rapidly consumed the most serene expression she’d ever seen her company wear.

_Damnit._

“Could you have been any more disruptive, Draco?”

Draco brought with him the scent of sage and lavender, an odd combination but one Hermione chopped up to a rapid and sudden summons interrupting delicate potion construction. “I apologize, Aunt Bella, I was rushed.”

“Sit.” Bellatrix spat and without hesitation Draco plopped on the couch on his side of the combined box. “You’re late to boot.”

Draco opened and closed his mouth for a moment before he squeaked—“But no one else is here!”

Bellatrix pursed her lips and Hermione tried not to giggle. She _didn’t_ giggle.

“That is peculiar.” Bellatrix started, but soon a rapid series of pops invaded the space.

Lucius Malfoy was the first of them, appearing besides his son with a flourish of robes and fingers tightly gripping his cane. Snape was next, appearing in his box while turning at the same time to lift his gaze and address them in theirs.

“There’s a problem,” He said, and Lucius gave a tight nod in echo of the statement while Bellatrix sneered.

“Of course, there’s a problem,” She motioned to the mark upon her arm but Snape only narrowed his eyes in respond, in no mood for sass.

“Don’t toy around, Bella.” It was odd to hear her nickname fall from Snape’s twisted up lips, but it was enough to garner her attention-- “He’s called a great majority of us and--”

The sound of appearing Death Eaters and Ministry officials nearly overshadowed the soft pop of Luna as she apparated into the combined box before them then promptly took a seat right on Bellatrix lap. For a moment, as if startled, Bellatrix jerked, but soon enough she was frowning and using her good hand to distractedly toy with Luna’s hair.

Hermione, on the other hand, was startled enough for them both-- “Luna!”

The Ravenclaw smiled in her usual distracted fashion, “Hello Hermione, Lady Black. Sorry to interrupt.”

She squirmed a bit as if getting comfortable and Bellatrix only tilted her head as Hermione’s companion made herself right at home, “I’ve news. Get ready for judgement.”

Now Bellatrix quirked a brow and glancing over Luna’s shoulder she barked out, “Snape?”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Snape snapped, “Ms. Lovegood is correct. She was there, in Thicknesse’s office, when it happened.”

Hermione reached out a hand, placed it against Luna’s arm and searched the serenity that made up her friend’s unusual calm facade. “Luna? Please?”

With a quirked brow and a soft sigh Luna said, “At the Ministry, he came to them, broke in. He said he was worried, that he had information. They summoned Yaxley--”

At the mention of that name a loud pop echoed throughout the chamber and Yaxley himself, in a cloud of black smoke, moved forward. With nose up and a sneer already in place he spread out his arms and motioned to the gathered collection--”Clear some space! Create a barrier!”

The Death Eaters present began to lower their hoods, revealing faces she would never forget. Gregory Goyle stepped forward, his disposition hardly different, though he seemed more muscular than she had ever seen him. He was the first to take up what appeared to be a practiced formation, quickly followed by a stumbling laughing Greyback and a stern-faced Walden Mcnair whose pursed lips were turned up as if he’d swallowed something sour. 

Others were appearing and moving to set up the human barrier, familiar and unfamiliar faces creating a wide circle with wands drawn while Hermione looked on in wonder and her blood rushed with the stirrings of excitement. It was surreal to be on the other end of this, to watch from the high seats of ancient nobility and high ranked Death Eaters. Her grip upon Luna only tightened and while a part of her wondered curiously--and honestly, not without a bit of envy--about how comfortable the group seemed in their places of importance, she couldn’t help but feel a part of it. Soon Death Eaters looked to the stands and gave their respectable nods of acknowledgement. Fenris, with his wide and unnerving smile. Goyle, with something odd and gentle in his expression as he gave their group a shy wave…

This was not the first time they’d gathered here together, in a manner like this. She could tell from the robes some of them wore, from the fact they were dressed like Aurors and not like spoiled nobility, that beyond the walls of her former home the world had still turned and people had grown serious, competent...

“What’s happening?”

“They are going to bring him to trial.” Luna responded, right before she lifted her hand and placed it against Hermione’s own. “And we will watch them pass judgement. The others will vote.”

“On what, exactly?” Hermione asked, just as Thorfinn Rowle and Antonin Dolohov appeared, with the latter sending a wink in her direction, a wink that made Bellatrix snarl in warning and Hermione cringe in disgust.

Luna only frowned at the display before patting Hermione’s hand gently, “You’ll see.”

Hermione swallowed nervously and leaned back in her seat, wondering when and if Bellatrix would find Luna’s weight upon her lap a hindrance, but she merely kept her gaze upon the center and the gathering people there with one hand brushing a thumb back and forth across Hermione’s shoulder and the other twirling a strand of Luna’s blonde hair about her fingers. She looked perfectly at home.

Finally, after the Death Eaters were in place, the boxed stands to the throne’s right began to fill. A man Luna introduced as the father of Theodore Nott popped into place first, lips pressed thin and a crystal glass of red liquid in hand. In the box above him appeared Goyle Sr. A few other men popped into place while some of the seats remained empty but by then Hermione’s attention was back at the center floor and Luna had long since stopped introducing them.  

“Umbridge...” Hermione sneered, her voice unrestrained in its contempt. She flared her nostrils and tried to settle her twitching hands but the hum of her wand, warm against her arm in its holster, and the memory of their last meeting woke some slumbering yearning within her to _hurt_.

Luna only smiled while Snape peered at her curiously and uttered, “My sentiments exactly, Miss Granger.”

“Patience,” Lucius whispered, his fingers occupied with stroking the top of his decorated cane.

Bellatrix was oddly quiet, watching the widely grinning Dolores with all the intensity of the obsessed, while Draco, scowl in place, bobbed his knee up and down in an anxious manner with a muttered ‘soon’.

Bellatrix wordlessly mouthed the word as well.

Somehow, knowing that this group of people held such detestation for the woman who had done insult against her name and blood soothed something in her. If only that hunger would ease as well.

“Make room for the Minister,” Dolores bellowed, her voice causing many to jerk and cringe, especially the poor few occupants that were currently sharing her immediate space, “Make room--”

“Quiet you insufferable--” Yaxley began to hiss, spittle flying past his lips just as Thicknesse popped into the space.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He was ruffled, literally. A mess of wrinkled robes and wild hair as if he'd been ambushed by a wandless ruffian. “No need for all of that, Dolores.”

He stomped forward, shoulders drawn in tension, his hand moving to shove Dolores toward a small uncomfortable straight-back chair. “Sit.”

“But Pius--”

“Best do as he says, wittle Dolores. Wouldn’t want you to get hurt when they bring in the big bad wizard like last time.” Bellatrix yelled, gaining her attention, and bringing a few chuckles from the attending audience.

With her face as red as a fire-salamander she turned to glare at their collection, only to gasp, as if affronted, by the sight of Hermione.

“You!” Dolores cried out.

“Me!” Hermione mocked, placing a hand upon her chest and having little trouble dredging up a look of absolute abhorrence.

The still chuckling crowd did nothing to ease Dolores discomfort.

Pius sneered and shoved down hard, forcing Dolores to sit within the chair in a flutter of brightly colored robes and a sound of offense. “Would you behave for once, Dolores?”

“What is she doing here?” Hermione heard Dolores hiss, to which Snape replied--

“She is His Chosen. She has proved her right to be here.”

“And... and among his seats? Does she have that right?” Here Dolores trained her gaze upon Bellatrix, as if she could cow the wild woman with a look of scathing disappointment.

“Are you trying to chastise me? On things you know nothing about, ickle Dolores?” The hand that had been idling playing with Luna’s hair came to a pause and despite not reaching for her wand Hermione knew that Bellatrix full attention was threat enough.

“She has that right,” Lucius spoke, his commanding bellow enough to make Dolores jerk in her seat. “She gained such when she successfully showed our Lord the Cruciatus. I believe... on you, in fact.”

Like a puffed-up fish, Dolores prepared to explode, humiliated among a crowd of laughing Death Eaters and allied nobility.

“Dolores!” Pius barked, forcing her to swallow her next words and pay attention to her employer. “Focus!”

Then, with a wave of his wand he summoned a parchment and quill and barked at her to record the session. That did not keep her from glaring in Hermione’s direction, unfortunately.

What did keep her from glaring was the sudden commotion that took place at the center of the room. Of the tumble of apparated limbs and shouts as five figures landed in a heap before the fire pit.

There was a muffled yelp at the bottom before two figures untangled themselves from the wriggling pile. Two familiar figures, who flopped backwards on their arses and scooted slightly away from the chaos created by the remaining three.

One sneering and ruffled Pansy Parkinson and a snarling panting Lavender Brown.

“Stand back, join the circle, give them some room!” Yaxley ordered, and immediately the two women continued to create space between themselves and the struggling bundle as they quickly gathered to their feet and joined the circle. For some time, they all watched, Hermione straining to find anything familiar about the wrestling figures while the other Aurors kept their wands trained on the tangled collection. Soon enough two of the figures broke off and managed to grapple the third until he was face down against the ground, wild red hair plastered with sweat and blanketing the face of the now captured man between them.

_Familiar_ red hair. Long and unkempt...

“Yoohoo,” Bellatrix catcalled and two crazed faces lifted from glaring at their captured prize to smile broadly in their direction.

The two faces belonging to one Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange.

She felt their eyes upon her, felt Rodolphus frown slightly with focus despite the slight struggle of his prize beneath him but all too soon he was smiling, something mischievous, something hungry, something absent of normal thought.

“Hello, love,” He panted out, using a hand to slap against the back of the head of the red-headed man so that his face was pressed uncomfortably against the shiny floor. “So nice to see you again, shame I’m a bit busy here.”

“She wasn’t saying hi to you, dear brother.” Rabastan panted, face blotchy and flushed, “Clearly, she was saying hello to me.”

There was something awfully terrifying about watching them interact. Something horrifying about the idea that Rodolphus still lived and seemed rather jolly for a man who had been separated from his wife. Bellatrix, in retrospect, looked downright ecstatic to see them and her smile was brilliant when she turned it upon Hermione.

“Have you seen her? My pretty beloved?” Bellatrix asked, fully intended to have a conversation with the brothers while they fought for control and Yaxley growled in annoyance.

“A treasure, so lovely.” Rodolphus replied with a grunt as he absorbed the impact of a flailing leg.

“We should have tea sometime--”

“Will you all please take this seriously?!” Pius crowed, his voice high-pitched as he yanked at the tie around his neck in a manner more crazed than casual.

“Ah, he’s right.” Yaxley mumbled, before he motioned for the men to lift the man to his feet.

As he wheezed and jerked, he finally spoke, his voice… his _voice_ \-- “It was an accident! This is all rather unnecessary! I’m only acting in self-defense. Self-defense!”

“Hush up,” Pius said, “Before my wand has an accident and--”

“ _That’s enough._ ”

The fire at the center of the room suddenly came to life. Sparking and crackling with enough force that heat spewed across the room in a frenzied wind. The green flame towered up and above them, splashing across the ceiling with its fanfare and Hermione found herself pressed tightly against Bellatrix to avoid what she was sure would be a few wayward tongues of fire meant to bathe the crowd.

No such thing happened but Bellatrix seemed delighted by the extra heat and Luna made a curious sound of pleasure.

Soon enough the fire settled down, twisting, and writhing until it took the shape of the Dark Lord, who stepped from the flickering flames with a shake of His robes. As He moved toward His throne the silence grew thick with the gathered authority breathless until He took His seat, graceful, patient, refined--

“Show me his face…” The Dark Lord spoke, His chilling tone like so many cold fingers against her back. His voice enough to make her heart race, to make her muscles twitch in the memory of that night when she had given Him her confused devotion. It was enough to make every being in the room seem inconsequential, and for a moment there was only Hermione, Him, and the possessive grip Bellatrix had on the back of her neck. That was enough, enough to anchor her, enough to drag her deeper down the rabbit hole of His political control, until she felt as if Bellatrix was Him, and He was her.

She shook her head to clear her thoughts, to focus as Rabastan harshly gripped the back of their captured prey’s face only to yank it back and reveal the strained expression of- 

Bill Weasley.

 


	11. bully billy

“Ah…”

The tension that curled throughout His Wizengamot felt thick and oppressive. Only His voice, curious with just a hint of interested surprise, seemed enough to break the spell that took hold of them. Hold of _her._

Hermione’s heart was a rattling beast, trapped within the cage of her impossibly tight ribs. The sensation of floating, of feeling out of control, twisted through her belly bringing immediate discomfort and a grimace she could not hide nor repress. His face, Bill’s face, with its three long slashes--puckered and red flesh once torn asunder by werewolf claws now healed and raised in a manner to grotesque to be professionally cared for--was painfully reminiscent of _another's_. Unique and easily recognizable yet drawn and tired. She’d seen that look before, knew it was the face of a person haunted by their mistakes, haunted by loss, haunted by the type of anxiety that only came with running and running and _running_.

When even hiding was nearly impossible and certainly not worth the effort.

It was a look she’d seen on The Boy. It was a look she’d watched form on _Ronald_ , one that had eventually been twisted by the burden they’d all carried before it led to his desertion during their most harrowing time of need.

So…

What had William deserted?

“I must say,” The Dark Lord rumbled, His voice the perfect mockery of casual inspection, “I did not expect you to return.”

Hermione released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and only now did the ache of her clutched fingers--fisted tightly among some of Bellatrix loose skirts--register among the kaleidoscope of emotion that filtered through her. Bill was thin, incredibly so, and filthy. His overall appearance didn’t seem to bother her company and even Luna remained rather serene in the face of their old beaten down ally. Did they feel nothing for him? Nothing other than the suspicion and trepidation that showed on their faces?

She swallowed her distress, unwilling (and unable) to show weakness surrounded by virtual strangers. She could not afford to feel sorrow here, to show pity toward a traitor--no matter the familial love she had once held for him. No matter how much she’d missed seeing someone else, knowing someone else out there had felt her same fears and convictions.

Convictions that were no longer relevant now that she was but another dog on the leash of her Lord.

Bill’s lips opened and closed, their cracked state having little to do with the soft croaks they released. His body language spoke volumes. Where he’d once struggled fiercely he now hung limp, held before His presence by the combined strength of the proud Lestrange brothers. She knew he wanted to speak, could see his will reflected in a gaze that trembled, but Voldemort was an overwhelming presence.

Only The Boy had ever held strong when surrounded by His circle.

She closed her eyes, cowardly, afraid--

“You have to look.” Luna whispered. “Give him that. He deserves that.”

With a harsh breath, Hermione sucked her bottom lip between her teeth. How Luna could ask her to watch what would no doubt become a circus of slaughter was beyond her.

She couldn’t see it, but she could _feel_ Bellatrix gaze upon her. She could clearly imagine her sneer, could sense her mild irritation at Hermione’s newfound weakness--

“I’m here.” Luna said, her voice a sharp interruption that tickled along the flesh of her neck. At some point, Luna had changed position. She’d abandoned whatever comfort Bellatrix lap had provided to instead settle herself on Hermione’s other open side, pushing her further against Bellatrix warmth while providing her own.

“You can open your eyes.”

Though her heart refused to settle she found the courage--for was she not the lion she desperately claimed to be? --to open her eyes. From the corner of her narrowed vision she saw Luna’s moonlit colored hair, some of it tossed loosely over her chest as her companion rested her head upon her shoulder. In another breath, she risked a glance to Bellatrix.

And there was nothing but predatory interest in her look and downturned lips in a harsh scowl. “You’ll give Him your attention.”

In those words, so carefully hissed, was an unspoken threat. She would not disrespect Him with residue _feelings_ for a blood traitor.

She was not allowed to destroy herself.

But she found it difficult to feel entirely numb just the same.

“Speak if you’re going to speak!” Pius barked, his wand clutched painfully within a whitening trembling grip.

“He was quite rough,” Luna tittered, her lips split in a smile too reminiscent of something Bellatrix might have displayed.

“W-who?” Hermione swallowed, her gaze glued upon the proceedings even as Luna forced her grip to uncurl from Bellatrix clothing.

“Bill,” Luna said. “He arrived in a frenzy… The Ministry was rather shocked and Bill was rather forward in his insistence for an audience.”

With a strangled squeak, Hermione said, “He asked for this?”

“Oh yes,” Luna replied. “They took something from him.”

“They? The Dark Lord?”

With a withering look, Snape, who had yet to take his seat proper, hissed over his shoulder, “Silence!”

Hermione snapped her mouth shut, six years of ingrained need to obey any Professor’s spoken order to strong to subconsciously overcome.

“S-sorry, Minister.” Bill hissed, his voice a sharp sudden bark among the soft muttering in the room. His respect for Pius was rather clear in the lingering hiss he expelled, his irritation in his capture and manhandling evident. It seemed like some of his courage had returned and for that Hermione was thankful.

It was enough to bolster her own.

“I have done nothing wrong,” Bill tested the words on his tongue and nervously licked his lips, “I was acting in self-defense.”

There a moment of silence before The Dark Lord leaned forward, His long unnatural fingers curled over one another in a human act of contemplation, “That was not the report I heard.”

Bill winced and shook his head in adamant denial. “I--”

“--Was this not an attempt to murder the Minister and overrun the state with anarchy? I was told by Undersecretary Umbridge that you…” Here, The Dark Lord paused as a raspy sigh slipped past parted lip. “What was it you said, Dolores?”

The woman in question sputtered, not expecting The Dark Lord to address her directly no doubt.

“He.. he came into the office with fists at the ready, my Lord.”

“Fists at the ready and…?”

“And he went wild, of course!”

The Dark Lord hummed slightly, thoughtful-- “Do elaborate.”

Pius gnawed on his bottom lip as Dolores stood from her place before the conjured quill. Her lips were pressed thin in slight smile, one that reflected an unearned sort of haughtiness. Umbridge thought the attention upon her was good, no doubt. Hermione felt that such focus would have been horrible, had she been in her place. Especially after what she’d done the night of the revel.

No, His attention, unless specified otherwise, was probably not the best thing to attract in this sort of circumstance.

“He was foaming at the mouth, practically rabid. He kept screaming ‘take me to him’! Aggressive and dangerous!” Dolores sneered, delighted, “Of course our Minister declined the demand.”

“Did he now?”

While Dolores puffed out her chest like a strutting turkey Hermione noticed The Dark Lord looked unimpressed with her theatrical explanation. His body language, while refined and confident, almost seemed to slouch under the weight of her exaggerations.

“He was frazzled, certainly,” Luna corrected, her voice soft and nearly devoured by Dolores loud proclamation, “Frantic. But I wouldn’t describe it as wild. A Sphinx is wild.”

Dolores choked on her words as Voldemort interrupted her with but a minor flick of His wrist.

There’s a soft clearing of throat as Voldemort sat a bit straighter-- “What was that, Ms. Lovegood?”

Luna inhaled sharply and Hermione jerked caught off guard by His sudden interest. “WIlliam Weasley entered the office frantic, my Lord. However, as I told my Lady Granger, I would have not described him as wild. Malnourished and desperate, of course, but not wild.”

Dolores trembled where she stood, silent and fuming.

“Oh? Would you describe him as dangerous?”

“He had no wand, my Lord, and if anything, Mr. Weasley was only a tad impolite, nothing incredibly terrifying.”

Bill swallowed nervously, his neck bobbing with the motion as he tested the hold of his current captors. He didn’t dare speak, maybe there were no words he could use to properly explain his case. Instead, he merely stared, his eyes wide and practically unseeing as they focused on Luna…

And ultimately, on herself.

She held his gaze and shook, felt her spine stiffen as the skin of her marked arm _burned and itched._ That look, those emotions, the betrayal, the terror… his hurt, his confusion…

It was nearly too much.

“He remembers you,” Bellatrix purred, her arm wrapped tightly, _possessively,_ around her waist. “He fears for you.”

No, he couldn’t possibly fear for her. She didn’t deserve that sort of emotion. Not anymore, not as something dark and heavy filled her belly, mingling with her anxiety, and eroding her guilt.

“But there’s no need, is there? After all, it’s not me you're afraid of.”

Hermione swallowed and shook her head, though she barely registered the motion. Bellatrix was right, it was herself that she feared.

“A tad impolite?” He asked, and the tension, the thread of intense focus that held them, snapped as Bill whipped his head back to face The Dark Lord.

“He wanted someone to listen to him, my Lord. He may have… grabbed the Minister by his robes.”

“And, where were you?”

“Oh! I was off to the side, my Lord. Keeping Ms. Umbridge safe. She was screaming--”

“How dare--”

Voldemort gave a soft sound, like gravel rolling over glass, and that was enough to cut Dolores off before she managed to croak out another word.

“And,” Luna licked her lips, her smile gentle despite the interruption, “I didn’t want her to get in the way.”

Bellatrix gave a sudden wild howl-- “Like last time!”

“My Lord,” Dolores snarled, her voice strained, “I’d like to mention that Ms. Lovegood’s behavior was very suspicious during the altercation and that I should remind those present that **she** and the Mud--”

Dolores coughed slightly, a sly cover up for her near slip, but Hermione caught it easily as well as everyone else who narrowed their gaze in the space.“--Ms. Granger were a part of a faction meant to defy and destroy you!”

There was a soft undertone of whispering then, though His Death Eaters were strangely quiet throughout the rolling commotion. Still, He let them talk, those who occupied seats on the right, seats that still belonged to some of the… now allied Ancient and Noble Houses.

Though none of them spoke up to give backing to Dolores claims.

Hermione pressed closer to Bellatrix and the older woman gave a rumbling growl of pleasure at the motion but didn’t seem bothered by Dolores statement. If anything, the wild grin on her face was more concerning than the uneasy mumbling of their current company. It was enough to ease the tight ball of apprehension that had curled in her chest but not completely erase her concerns. For six years, she’d kept a low profile and to think that this… _toad_ could possibly destroy all that in one afternoon. The thought that she could even damage Luna’s reputation with such wild accusations? That was unforgivable.

She would not let this happen. She would not let someone come and destroy the life her friend had created for herself, even if it was questionable, even if Luna had dragged her along. She would not lose this… this… feeling of dark fulfillment. She couldn't let go of the knowledge of arts once forbidden to her, of power she hadn’t known she possessed. Of Draco’s unneeded arrogance. Of Narcissa’s strange affections. Of Bellatrix--

 _She would never let her go._ If Hermione must suffer. If she must feel pain… then her betrothed would as well. They were too connected, too intimately bound by agony, history, and madness. Bellatrix had awakened some wild hungry possessive need within her, one that could not be calmed or eased. One that lacked all manner of control whenever they were together, whenever she tried desperately to fight it, to separate. And now, now that someone was trying to rip that away from her--!!

She sneered and narrowed her eyes, all careful neutrality gone, devoured under a suffocating blanket of welcomed fury. Bill seemed taken aback by her look of offense and she found herself unable to process or care how she must have appeared to him. Later, when she had time, she might analyze the violent strength held in her reaction. The way she ground her teeth, the sudden harsh grip she held upon Bellatrix arm--and she made sure to make it punishing. She made sure to curl her fingertips, to sink her well-maintained nails into available flesh and pinch until thin driblets of crimson rose to her unspoken call and Bellatrix choked and snarled sharply at the suddenness of her aggression. For all intents and purposes she must have looked like a properly infuriated pure-blood supporter.

She hadn’t realized that Luna’s reaction was much the same.

Except, instead of righteous fury her face was a cool reflection of chilling cruelty. That gaze, so intense and often dreamily introspective, carved a path through the audience from The Dark Lord to the woman who had dared make her accusations. There was nothing kind and gentle about Luna then, nothing soft and malleable in the way she took a deep rattling breath. There was something incredibly _terrifying_ about her then, something that eased the wild thumping in Hermione’s head and caught her attention undeniably.

Bellatrix was quick to whip out a hand and harshly squeeze her own until her fingers reluctantly relinquished the flesh she’d marked but Hermione barely registered the discomfort. Instead she stared as Luna rose from her seat and inhaled deeply.

Something _more_ was there. Something undeniably indescribably Luna and yet it screamed _other_ just the same. Hermione sucked in another frantic breath when Luna stepped forward. She could _feel_ it, the wild seductive snap of _power_ that crawled down the length of Luna’s spine and seemed to spiral around her like ethereal wind. She blinked once or twice, tried to clear her distorted vision, but there was no denying the barely visible wisps of _something_ curling across Luna’s shoulders and arms.

Magic.

So thick she could barely think past it.

“Breath,” a voice tittered in her ear.

So thick she could practically _taste_ it.

“You have to keep breathing,” the voice said again, annoying but familiar. It was Him. It was **her.** It was no one.

She shouldn’t have been able to feel it so clearly. Luna’s very essence felt raw against her flesh. The heat it carried was too much, so much more than the flames of her own desperate anger.

“Poor little pet,” The voice chuckled softly, all honey and dripping hunger, “The first time it happens it’s always hard. Feeling magic. Seeing it. Tasting it.”

_Of course._

Yet, the pressure seemed to ease and instead of that horrifying metaphysical suffocation relief chilled her sweat-drenched flesh and she finally, finally, remembered what breathing was.

That, of course, meant nothing overall for Luna still stood at the front of their box and her alarming look of uncompromising ferocity did not lessen. No matter how cool and controlled her expression remained.

“Dolores Umbridge, last remaining member of the Lesser House of Umbridge. Do you mean to claim that I, Luna Lovegood, Heiress to the Elevated Noble House of Lovegood, would betray this new order? And in turn, betray my allied Lady?”

There’s a wicked finality to those words, an unerring fierce protectiveness and indignation that leaks into the well-practiced phrase of pure-blood etiquette. There was something at work here, some political turn that had the crowd silenced, Voldemort quietly invested, and Bill’s eyes bulging.

“I’ll have you know that I am related to the Ancient and Noble House of Selwyn and there is nothing ‘lesser’--”

“--I am one of His loyal. Marked and acknowledged--”

Here Bill gave out a small whimper, his expression ashen.

“--And still you dare?”

Dolores stood up straight, her hands curled into shaking fists, “And what gives you the right to claim nobility anyway? Granger has done **_nothing_** to prove she is in a station of power high enough to bring up the likes of _you,_ a former blood traitor--”

“-- **You.** ” Luna stated viciously, her lips curled up in a smile most unnatural, “Have offended the Mighty House of Granger, the very _First_ House of Firstborn brethren and in turn you have now offended me.” For a moment, Luna paused, thoughtful, then sighed wistfully, “Which, I must admit, is an awfully hard thing to do.”

Bellatrix feral laughter was the only thing to crack the oppressive silence thereafter such an admittance, but it did nothing to lessen the heavy weight that hung over them or Voldemort’s quirked brow of interest.

“You really are something, ickle Dolores!” Bellatrix yowled, “Offending two houses of rising power! Claiming them blood traitors and pathetic Order sympathizers! Who of the Ancient and Noble House of Selwyn would claim someone like _you?_ ”

Slowly Voldemort leaned forward, head tilted, Bill forgotten and left to tremble and sag between the Lestrange brothers, “Do we have a record keeper among us?”

“Our appointed record keeper is absent, my Lord,” Snape, still standing, swept into a graceful bow, “But I will substitute.”

Dolores gave a bark--”M-my Lord, I am record keeper here and surely you--”

“--I would be silent, Dolores.” Lucius drawled. He looked incredibly relaxed despite the overall commotion while Draco peered down with a practiced yet perfectly mimicked grace. “This is not the first engagement of importance you’ve interrupted, but it is the second you’ve interrupted in the name of defacing His Chosen.”

Dolores bit her lip so hard Hermione could see little droplets of blood form in the indents.

_Good._

She had no idea what was going on but Luna, despite her earlier actions, seemed somewhat back to normal--if the gentle smile she tossed over her shoulder was any indication.

“Severus,” The Dark Lord said, “Do look into Umbridge’s claim into the house of Selwyn.”

Now Dolores looked incredibly pale, it made her appear even more ridiculous within her pink preposterous outfit. “My Lord, I--”

“The Lesser House of Umbridge has been continuously supported by the Minister House.”

Now sound returned, it came in a burst of sharp mutters and one rambling Pius-- “Ms. Lovegood, surely you don’t think that I’ve put her up to such wild ideals?”

“What are we to think?” Bellatrix interrupted, “She is a big fat lump on efficiency and still around to boot.”

“Bellatrix--”

“Lady Black, if you would? Wittle Pius? Let’s not forget our manners,” Bellatrix corrected, wild grin in place as she displayed slick white teeth. “Lest you offend the Ancient and Noble House of Black as well.”

“Oh ho, and you would not want that.” Rabastan crowed, his grip upon Bill impossibly tight. Tight enough that the man who had been forgotten during the mess winced and cringed.

“There’s a reason Slughorn has not been back.”

Lucius words were enough to make Pius lower his gaze to his feet as he delicately dabbed at the sweat around his forehead. “I apologize for my impolite behavior but, could we get back to the matter at hand?”

His words were no longer the confident drawl Hermione would have attached to him. Instead Pius seemed anxious, exhausted, exasperated and above all, frightened.

“Naturally,” The Dark Lord said, and while His face remained impassive there was a wild glimmer to His gaze, “but you must acknowledge Ms. Lovegood’s statement.”

Pius swallowed and croaked, “I want no part in Dolores offense--”

“--Pius!” Dolores yelled.

“--Her accusation was uncalled for.”

“But not entirely unwarranted.” Voldemort rumbled, “So what is the reason you did not attempt to assist the Minister during his attack, Ms. Lovegood?”

Here Luna tilted her head, “He was not attacked, my Lord. Mr. Weasley is weak and barely standing. He did not come upon the Minister with dangerous intention. Yes, upon being denied an audience with you he may have grabbed the Minister’s robes but the most he did was get him a little… filthy.”

Now she smiled, something sly and amused as she motioned toward the rumpled Pius, who gracelessly stumbled back and brushed off his stained clothing. “The Aurors were summoned and I, as your faithful, would never allow true harm to come to your Minister. The only time fists were flying would have been when Mr. Weasley attempted to avoid capture.”

Now, Luna gave an idle cutting glance to Dolores. “That’s all.”

Voldemort gave a slow nod, “And this is all true, Mr. Weasley? You are here to deliver to me some great message of importance after avoiding detection for several years? One does not return from the land of the missing for simple social visits.”

Missing? Bill had been missing?

“I-it is.” Bill shuddered, his gaze on the ground, his body sagging once again.

“Luna,” The Dark Lord said as He leaned back, eyes closed. “Do what you will.”

Now Luna smiled brilliantly, as if she were a child in a candy store. “Thank you, my Lord.”

She turned just slightly to face Dolores once more, looking down at her from her position in their box in the perfect imitation of a pure-blood Lady.

“Umbridge, I demand my cut of blood and flesh. You will come on bended knee to my Lady and to me by next full moon or you will be dueled to uphold my house integrity. My house and the House of Granger will not allow unification on any subject until then with Lesser House Umbridge nor the elevated house of the Minister.”

To this Pius jaw flopped open and his face was so red Hermione thought he might burst. She had no idea what Luna had just claimed for them, but the general gist was easy enough to grasp. Somehow, they had just shunned Umbridge, a humiliation that must have cut rather deep and wide reaching as several Aurors stepped away from Pius as if he were the literal plague. A political plague to be sure.

Draco took a few steadying breaths before he blurted out, “The Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy backs this claim.”

It was quickly followed by Bellatrix’s gleeful admission of-- “The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black backs this claim.”

To this Voldemort laughed, a soft raspy sound that sent shivers down Hermione’s spine-- “How unfortunate. These allied houses will make your endeavors quite difficult for you… and Ms. Lovegood holds their votes.”

Now, Hermione exhaled slowly, her gaze steady upon Bellatrix face as she tried to read her, tried to understand the implications of what Draco and her had done but the sudden toss of Bill onto the floor by the Lestrange brothers and the continuing movement away from the Minister was meaning enough.

Luna had done something. They had done something. Something extremely damaging. Something equivalent to choking them. They were taking power away from them with nothing more than a few powerful words and a crafty well done political tap-dance. Those who once felt confident--or in Umbridge case, tolerable--of their actions now had reason to distrust and suspect. It went beyond appointed authority, beyond the power or obnoxious fervor to make things happen. It was all about respect. About the integrity of the human-made brand. Wasn’t that how Dumbledore had gained so much power? So much ability to change and determine meager lives and roles? The right to a collective, to well-placed friends and alliances, was an earned one and one wrong move could destroy that. Unknowingly, despite her newness, Hermione had acquired more than just intangible prestige. She had gained social wealth through The Dark Lord, and that was far more important at the moment than any of the galleons she held in Gringotts.

Suddenly Hermione understood, she knew why Castlewater was quick to bow. Being rejected in this new world built through connections was akin to death. No longer being useful to The Dark Lord left you open to a perverse type of vulnerability.

The Lords in their seats on Voldemort’s right side were like wolves and vultures, waiting and watching, hungry for their turn to kick aside one more piece and take his place.

“This is... “

“Boring stuff.” Bellatrix responded, her voice a whining drone but her satisfaction was clearly shown all over her smiling face.

“Y-yes,” Hermione whispered as Luna came back to her side. “Boring stuff.”

“Mr. Weasley,” The Dark Lord moved on without so much as a nod acknowledgement to His Minister and fury infused Undersecretary. If He was concerned that His most faithful Death Eaters had released a freshly discovered rebel without restraint, He certainly didn’t show it. “What have you to tell me?”

Bill slowly pulled himself up, his movements labored and his breathing frantic. He trembled, though whether it was with relief from being released or terror from being focused Hermione did not know. Either way, despite his parted lips his tongue was heavy. He didn’t speak, didn’t so much as utter confirmation that he’d heard The Dark Lord, as he rose from the floor into a full wavering stand.

Then, with as much pride as he could muster, despite his swaying, he lifted his head so that his gaze of blue was leveled upon the gleaming red reflected in Voldemort’s own.

“Help,” He croaked at first, his hands balled into fists at his side, “I need your help.”

Silence followed, thick and oppressive and Hermione didn’t bother to hide her astonished swallow.

Bill continued, “They took them. My family. My brothers. They wanted… they--”

He wavered, his voice cracked in a softly expressed sob, before he fell to one knee. Hermione knew it was more than just exhaustion that forced him to bow. It was the crushing realization that he was broken, desperate, and asking The Dark Lord for assistance. It was the pressure of admitting weakness, of admitting failure.

It was feeling one's personal honor shatter.

The Dark Lord was patient, His expression carefully passive, and were it not for His quirked brow Hermione would have thought Him completely unmoved by the display. As it stood, she knew He was curious.

“We were so tired. We had to stop. The children--my… my child!” His voice tapered off in a panicked wail, only cut off by the sharp hiss of Voldemort’s irritation.

“Stand. Address me properly,” He drawled, “And tell me what you need.”

For seeing His enemy beg was probably delightful. Hearing his pain, knowing that His world was the only point of salvation, must have been exhilarating.

And Bill, poor Bill, could do nothing more than obey. If whatever monster had taken his progeny was still out there, a monster more frightening than Voldemort himself, he would do whatever it took to have them returned, even if that meant a deal with _Him._ So, he stood, shaky, face sloppy with snot and the moisture of tears, but the jeers and cackling Hermione had expected never came.

They were all on the edge of their seat, watching a rival fall apart.

“M-my Lord,” Bill croaked, his throat trembling with strain as he gave up _everything_ in return for _something_ that might not come. “I have… information and in exchange I need… assistance.”

He cleared his throat as Voldemort nodded, “The Order has my daughter, I humbly request you get her back.”

 

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

 

_The Order has my daughter-_

The Order.

The Order still existed.

Hermione was not alone, not entirely. Out there somewhere, in Great Britain's wilderness, were the remains of The Order, of The _Light_ that had once consumed her, given her hope, pushed her forward--

And her heart didn’t pound with the thud of excitement. Her stomach didn’t flutter with inspiring realization. Instead, she felt cold, slick with sweat, and painfully aware of what was not yet spoken, of the heavy implications that after six long years The Order’s first major movement had been the disruption of Bill’s misplaced family. His appearance as a barely functional and frantic _father_ was not the reassuring look of the resistance. It was the look of someone defeated, downtrodden, desperate, and _ruined._ Without order, without the balance that even Hermione had achieved under The Dark Lord’s controlling thumb, Bill had done nothing but run and run and run and at some point, he’d admitted to being tired.

Maybe that was when The Order had struck, when the madness of resistance, of needing to _win_ , had disrupted even the most standard of morals.

“They took his… child?” Hermione whispered, her muscles tense, spine stiff.

“They did,” Luna whispered, body pressed close, her own tremble repressed as her tightly clasped hands clenched and unclenched in idle rhythms.

Bill’s admission, his _information,_ had done little to lessen the blow of Voldemort’s displeasure at hearing actual confirmation that The Order was still an existing entity. His magic had flared out, hot and suffocating--before it reached her Hermione had been confused, why had Snape collapsed into his seat? Why had Pius fallen to his knees? --until she wasn’t sure whether it was His fury snapping against her skin like the burning licks of a whip or her own ferocity and horror, boiling her blood within her until nothing else remained but her magic and **His** power.

His magical projection, despite the calm unchanged expression upon His face as He stood from His throne, was all consuming. The very walls groaned and creaked, the floor rippled with each step, warped like disturbed liquids, and the circle of witches and wizards shuffled back with sounds of distress Hermione had never heard the average adult make. She saw Him move behind the film of trembling red that invaded her vision. She heard Him whisper something incoherent and yet clearly vicious behind the rapid painful thud of her heart against straining ribs. She wasn’t sure exactly what happened thereafter, only that He had touched Bill and that Bill had screamed as if his very flesh were being torn from muscle.

Then, suddenly she could breathe again, could think past the raw emotion that had pummeled her senses, only to be replaced with an aching weakness.  She felt her body tip over suddenly onto the lap of a rabid eyed panting Bellatrix.

Good, so she hadn’t been the only one to feel completely out of control.

Yet, even now, pressed against Luna in the Ministry courtroom, as people milled around them, hushed and subdued, she still shook with a slight sensation of loss and confusion.

“It’s His magic,” Luna explained, “It’s addictive and very expressive, though punishing. You miss it, being around it.”

“No,” Hermione mumbled, “There’s no way I want to feel that sort of rage again. I thought I’d lose my mind.”

Luna shook her head, “You wouldn’t have. Not anymore, not as you are now.”

Then silence, for Hermione had nothing to say to that.

It wasn’t until Lord Parkinson wandered by, dabbing at his sweat slick brow after he tossed them a strange look, that Luna spoke again.

“They won’t kill him.”

Hermione swallowed nervously, holding back words of anxiety. She knew they wouldn’t kill him, The Dark Lord had stated as much when He’d had the stationed Aurors take him away. It wasn’t that she feared for his life, he was currently a useful source of information and an anomaly to boot--as one didn’t tend to ask their enemies to save their loved ones--but she wasn’t sure if she… cared.

“They won’t let us leave,” Hermione blurted as she tried to stuff trembling hands beneath her thighs to ease the shake, “They think we’re involved, they think we care.”

She couldn’t afford to care, she needed… she needed--

“You do care,” Luna said.

No. **No.**

“Just in a different way.”

Luna’s hand, once preoccupied with controlling her own nervous movements, now took up space across Hermione’s knee. The warmth there was comforting in the absence of Bellatrix, who had left shortly after the meetings conclusion to assist in escorting their new prisoner. Naturally, as Hermione moved to follow, Bellatrix harsh shove and chilling command of ‘ **stay’** had done nothing to ease the dread that flexed and curled throughout her belly.

“I don’t want him to be harmed.” Hermione licked her lips, “But…”

“We aren’t associated with him, He knows that.”

Hermione shook her head, “How are you so sure?”

“He read his mind, a very efficient way of gathering necessary information.”

Of course, legilimency was an extremely useful spell to have in one's skill directory. The fact that she had little experience with the art of it only made her all the more uneasy. Bellatrix seemed to infiltrate her paltry barriers with ease but she could hardly penetrate the puzzle that made-up Bellatrix network of consciousness. Could anyone, really? Did she even process thought on a level easily understood by the mundane?

It didn’t matter, she had no desire to go about slipping in and out of minds, not yet, not now.

Their conversation lapsed into silence, halted by the sudden activity of Aurors and a red-faced Minister as he swept into the room to heatedly whisper something to a laughing sneering Yaxley. For the most part the courtroom had emptied after Bill’s detainment and The Dark Lord’s expression of anger. He’d taken some of his Inner Circle--Bellatrix, Lucius, and Snape to be sure--then had motioned others to do tasks with a practiced sort of air. This wasn’t their first breach, apparently, just the first having to do with a major face of The Order.

So, what did that make Luna and herself? The fact that they had been left behind--and practically ordered to remain--was pretty telling. Even Draco had abandoned them to the coveted Black House seats claiming he needed to alert his mother of the most recent happenings and then locate a particular owl to send off a vague message to certain individuals. She wished that, for once, he had remained. Even his presence would have been somewhat comforting in the face of unknown implications.

She wondered if Umbridge accusations lingered in the minds of any of the present hovering Lords but their attention seemed focused on the massive doorway that led beyond the courtroom and individual hushed conversations.

“I’ve betrayed him,” Hermione whispered, unable to take the silence as voices faded from her consciousness and the heavy weight of paranoia and shame beat at her mentality, “We’ve betrayed The Order.”

Only Luna’s voice seemed to tug her from her self-loathing, “It’s difficult to betray something that didn’t want you.”

Hermione gagged, her voice caught in a tightening throat. “What?”

“They didn’t look for you, for us.” Luna answered casually, her gaze upon Umbridge, who hovered nearby like a hungry vulture, her lips pressed thin in a smug smile that was tossed their way every so often. Perhaps, from her point of view, she saw them as good as dead due to Bill’s reveal.

“Where have they been?” Luna’s brow was pinched in a manner Hermione might have found cute if her nerves were alight with mounting anxiety, “Why return now?”

“They thought us dead,” Hermione answered. “Certainly, that’s the case.”

“I never thought you were dead, Hermione. Only waiting to be found.”

“You looked for me,” Hermione said, merely repeating a fact, as if knowing _someone_ hadn’t forgotten her would ground her mania.

“I looked for you.” Luna confirmed, squeezing her captured knee possessively in the warmth of her grasp.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to shut out the stimulus of nervous meandering pure-bloods, “But, that was just for The Dark Lord.”

“No.” Luna said plainly, “He knew where you were. He always knows. We, however, were not allowed to know, for this very reason.”

“The Order.”

“The Order,” Luna repeated, but her tone was odd, dark and weary, as if the representation of all they had fought for so many years ago, was now just a blight upon their recovering reputation. In a way, Hermione supposed it was. Her existence was difficult, a challenging mess of suppressed memories and unstable future goals. To have all that ruined by misleading assumption seemed terribly unfair. She felt guilty for the thought of that, not because she had embraced her role among His people, but because she didn’t feel guilty for that embrace.

She was just too hungry now to return to a life of meaningless resistance.

“They aren’t the same, The Order.” Luna drawled, her smile in place as her eyes seemed to clear--pushing away whatever building storms that sought to cloud it. “They no longer represent what we once thought we wanted.”

Then Luna made an odd sound, some cheerful hum, “They were never what we really thought we wanted.”

Hermione cleared her throat, “And this?” She waved her hand out over the courtroom. “This is what we wanted?”

“To be heard. To be free.”

“This isn’t free.”

Luna gave her a _look_ , some odd cross between affection and exasperation, “No, I suppose it isn’t. Not in the way that you think you know.”

Had they been anywhere else, beyond the watchful gaze of His collective, she might have hissed at Luna in her frustration. Her odd way of speech and complete disregard for the upcoming danger was not helpful. Hermione had an overwhelming desire to understand and process, to ease the twisting knots that curled through her belly and tugged at her in two different directions. This wasn’t a question of morality--Hermione knew such a concept was lost to her now, buried under scars and heated lessons of darker magic--it was a question of…

Of what, exactly?

Of loyalty? Of what was right and wrong?--no, that was to close a subject to ethics, to morality, to things that didn’t matter in her pursuit of knowledge and need for power. All so she could survive.

Because, she had to remain pragmatic.

“If The Order were here, if… if Ha--” She choked, unable to say his name, unable to think past the buzzing that swept across her mentality and brought to life feelings of discomfort and fear. Fear of The Boy, fear of the chaos he represented now in their world of discipline through pain and carefully cultivated control.

That wasn’t right, the feelings weren’t right--

“Then things would have remained the same.” Luna’s voice was a beacon amongst the confusion, a lure to save herself from her mind's own failsafe to act against more traitorous thoughts and actions, and perhaps The Mark’s subtle hint that there would be less moments to ponder ‘what-if’s’. “Children do not have the power to change the world.”

No matter how many times Dumbledore tried to make that an indisputable truth.

“I had plans,” Hermione laughed listlessly, “Ideas and dreams… if they had won”

Because she couldn’t afford to think of The Order as ‘we’ anymore.

“I never forgot them.” Luna said, “They merely have to change.”

Into what, exactly?

It was best to change the subject, “Why do you suppose The Order… did what they did to Bill?”

Why did they allow him to run?

Instead of supplying an answer Luna stood, her palm turned up and held in her direction, expectant, steady, and no longer trembling. There wasn’t any need to press her for one, really. Hermione knew why. They’d grown desperate. The world was not on fire. Voldemort was not their fabled monster, twisted by Light proposed propaganda into a man of insane platforms and half-worked politics. The Muggles were safe, the Muggle-borns carefully evaluated, and the people patched up and functional. Only a few of them were broken, held together with bandaged pride and salvaged ideals--twisted to fit His purpose--but useful… wanted.

So, those who remained to fight against Him were losing sight of why they needed to.

“Come now, my Lady.” Luna smiled gently, something vivid and fearless and that was enough to settle Hermione’s hammering heart. “He’ll call for us soon.”

Hermione took Luna’s offered hand and stood but that didn’t mean she wasn’t skeptical of her statement, “Bellatrix said to stay put so I’ll have to ask you to refrain from apparating us anywhere, if that is your intention.”

Luna’s smile never faltered, “Did she?”

Hermione scowled, “I’m sure you heard that growl as clear as I did. I have no desire to be **_punished_** because you’re antsy.”

“Antsy?” Luna asked, innocently, “I don’t fancy myself an ant, Hermione.”

“And I don’t fancy the idea of being spa--” Hermione clamped her mouth shut. One, because she’d almost revealed something she had no desire to elaborate on in a public space, and two, Narcissa Malfoy had just entered the courtroom.

 

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

 

“What’s happening?” Hermione croaked, the work Luna had done to soothe her all but forgotten in the face of the massive doors that led to the Malfoy dining room.

“Less questions,” Narcissa snapped, adjusting the lapel of Hermione’s outer robe--a nervous habit, Hermione supposed--before she forcibly turned her to face the doors.

“Our Lord has called,” Luna said, still rather cheerful despite the mumbled voices that echoed beyond the imposing wood.

“Yes, I can see that.” Hermione garbled, still somewhat nauseous from the rapid sensation of apparition Narcissa had demanded they take to get back to the manor, “What I want to know is why for?”

“You are His Chosen, aren’t you?” Narcissa drawled, one brow quirked high enough to nearly disappear behind a few loss strands of her normally perfectly held back hair.

Hermione shook her head wildly, apprehension making her feel less like His Chosen and more like a caged animal, “I… I used to be the face of The Order, The Boy’s Golden Girl, why would He--”

“One doesn’t question His actions, girl.” Narcissa hissed, pushing her toward the entrance with a less than gentle shove, “And you’ve given Him little reason to think you have anything to do with it.”

“I don’t,” Hermione was quick to answer, though the words made her feel… odd. She should have felt ashamed for her admission, embarrassed by her quickness to answer, but all she felt was frustration. “I’ve been dead to them for the last six years.”

Dead to everyone, even herself.

“Then stop your trembling--”

“Ah. I am not trembling, Lady Malfoy--”

“--He will not wait forever.”

“Really, must I be here? I need to finish His projects and--”

Then a voice, soft, amused, and yet undeniably commanding.

“Enter. Ms. Granger.”

“Go.” Luna whispered, fervent, gaze glassy and wide.

Hermione didn’t need to be told twice. Before she realized it her hand was already upon the cool wood of the large and heavy doors. She could feel… something beyond the threshold, the heat of magic against her awakened flesh, the addictive pull of His command and something _more_ , something that snapped and hissed and screeched--unsettled, agitated, needy, and feral--

“Bellatrix,” The name slipped past her lips and suddenly that wild taste of essence had a title to attached to it—something she knew on a nearly instinctual level-- but her mind was torn, trapped between understanding the magic that rubbed across her skin and controlling her body which seemed to move of its own accord.

She stepped into the room and paused, greeted by the sight of His seated council and the robust decor of the dining space. They were settled at the center, held comfortable and together by regal tall cushioned-back chairs and separated only by the antique marble table between them. He sat at the head of it all, with clasped hands tucked against a tipped forward chin. The fury that had occupied His being seemed absent, replaced by the curious pull that bid her to walk forward. With each step, she felt the temperature dip, felt His being exclude a chill that seemed neither purposeful nor accidental. He just **was**. A natural icy phenomena of commanding presence.  She wasn’t sure how to explain it, the way He felt as she approached, but it was familiar all the same.

Just as invasive as the last time she’d been near Him.

On the right side of the table Bellatrix stiffened, her lips parted as tongue slipped out to lick her lips in a manner too hungry to be innocent.

Hermione had to repress a shiver.

Narcissa and Luna filtered in after her, their steps practiced and coordinated as they took their seats--Narcissa on the other side of Bellatrix, settled comfortably beside her husband and Luna on the other side of the table across from her, next to Snape. Most of the chairs after that were filled in with those Death Eaters He was generally surrounded by, with only Peter forced to stand, his face twisted in a nervous scowl shot in her direction.

Only one seat remained unmarked and unoccupied, set conveniently beside Bellatrix own, though it seemed impossibly close to Voldemort Himself.

There was no way she was meant to sit there.

“Well?” A voice bellowed from the left, “Are you going to sit or not?”

“Give the bird a chance, eh?” Greyback responded, his presence the most surprising among those seated in the fact that he wasn’t. He’d taken up a spot against the wall, his posture sloppy and relaxed, his unsettling smile in place. “This is her first meetin’.”

The first voice gave a soft huff of impatience before he drummed his fingertips against the table surface. For the most part Hermione held herself rather well as memories bubbled to the surface of her mind and her belly ached in phantom pain.

“You should be a bit kinder, Dolohov, least you scare the poor thing away.” Rowle spoke up, brow quirked and gaze focused.

Focused on her.

With thin pressed lips her gaze narrowed. How could these people, these men of blood and slaughter, so easily accept her presence among them when so many years ago, she had been just meat to be beaten before them?

“Pet,” Bellatrix drawled, somewhat slouched in her chair with hands folded over belly. “Come on, come on. Don’t make me wait.”

She shook herself at that command, her attention stolen as she moved toward the chair. She could not afford to show feebleness here, and the idle thump of fears gained in childhood eased as she drew closer to her… seat. Her seat among His circle. There was no need to be afraid. Cautious, yes, but not afraid. Not anymore.

Not of **them** , anyway.

“Don’t make _you_ wait?” Dolohov grunted. “I have bloody work to do, what does she even need to be here for anyway? She’s not with the Ministry.”

“I’m the only one that matters, am I not?” Bellatrix asked innocently, eyes wide and glassy, perfect teeth on full display in a grin that seemed more threatening than friendly. “And He called for her, that’s good enough for someone like wittle ol’ you, isn’t it? She is Marked an all.”

Dolohov tore his gaze from Bellatrix to watched her move, tracking her as she carefully took her seat. Whatever he saw there, reflected in her expression--for Hermione tried to look harmless, friendly, open yet secure in her place--was enough to make him lean back and swallow harshly.

She hadn’t been able to control it, the sudden intensity of her fantasy, the idea of spreading him upon the table before His people with wand against a soft fluttering belly. She’d open him for them, for **her** and find peace in the action, in the matching scar she’d give him, in the cries that would part his lips.

She took a shuddering breath and blinked rapidly. Now she was terrified for an entirely different reason.

“That’s enough,” Voldemort said, the rolling husk of his voice, so sibilant and yet controlled, set to capture the current audience. “I have summoned you to speak briefly on your performance this evening.”

The men shifted in their seats, eager and attentive while Bellatrix only gave a soft sound of acknowledgement, her hand possessively on Hermione’s arm, settled over the _word_ carved upon her flesh. It was enough to distract her, to increase the speed of her breath as she curled her hand into a fist. She wanted to feel disgust, anger… to be reminded of such a thing _here_ of all places and yet she only felt the nagging need to recuperation such possessive ownership.

She bit her lip and swallowed a growl.

“William Weasley’s capture was unexpected…” He started, “But not unwelcomed.”

Hermione jerked in her seat, felt the heavy touch of something twine about her legs--something smooth and ridged… lukewarm but incredibly alive--and only Bellatrix tightening grip upon her arm kept her from pushing back her seat and crying out as Nagini’s head slipped itself easily onto her lap.

The size of her skull, the weight of it… she felt frozen in place, cowed by a flickering tongue and the depths of that animalistic all-knowing gaze. She wasn’t sure where the rest of Nagini was--for she knew the snake was massive in comparison to anything mundane--but the intellect in her, nearly muffled by her internal screaming, figured she must be half under the table, and half around her.

Then _it_ started again, soft and gentle… whispers… coaxing--

She blinked and they were gone, devoured by Voldemort’s voice, “The Order is fragmented but apparently still functional. I am not pleased.”

“Ol’ Yaxley said it was impossible. The teams combed all of Great Britain for the missing, and those that remained haven’t stepped so much as a toe out of line since being released from incarceration. I’d say there hasn’t been anyone in contact with that bunch, or whatever can claim to be left, since your second year, my Lord.”

“And yet,” Voldemort interjected, “Mr. Weasley somehow invaded the Ministry right under our noses. That doesn’t fill me with faith, Dolohov.” There was a sound from Him then, like the clicking of a tongue against the back of His teeth, “So how is it then, that Mr. Weasley was able to orchestrate such a debacle alone?”

For a moment, Dolohov paused, his gaze now upon Hermione, “Maybe this one here…?”

Luna laughed, the sound unusually playful among the tension filled space, “The wrackspurts are in your head again, they’re making odd sounds come out your mouth, Mr. Dolohov.”

There was a chuckle or two, quickly silenced by an idle hand wave from The Dark Lord, but not before Dolohov’s face went flushed.

“You’re calling my assumption nonsense?”

“That seems to be the case,” Narcissa answered coolly, unimpressed, “Granger has no owl yet and she’s used the public post in the past. Furthermore, it would be rather difficult to design a plan of this nature without setting foot near the Ministry until today. Wasn’t it _your_ team of Aurors that insisted watching her for the last six years for signs of dissention?”

Hermione swallowed a sound of distress and ground her teeth. They’d been spying on her, watching her…. **This man--**

“And if she hasn’t been using an owl? What then, eh? A patronus is just as good for communicating.”

Hermione opened her mouth once, twice.

“Halfway across Great Britain? Their last known movement wasn’t near anywhere Granger was reported to frequent.” This from Yaxley, who entered the room without announcement, “Don’t waste our Lord’s time, Antonin.”

“All I’m sayin’ is---”

Hermione slapped her open palm against the table, using her free hand to gain the attention she desperately wanted to wretch from the man that had nearly split her in half so many years ago.

“Nobody wants to hear this prattle,” She exclaimed, and while her tone was even her hands were shaky, “I have not been in contact with The Order. I didn’t even know anyone I knew was alive until recently. I have been bound, as was dictated to me by the Ministry after the war, to that flat, the surrounding wizarding community, and my job. So, don’t you dare sit here and belittle me or the work I’ve done the last six years to gain my stability.”

For a moment, there was only silence and Hermione kept her gaze upon the table and the flesh of her splayed hand.

Lucius broke the silence, “It is somewhat rude to accuse a Lady of treason before her Lord, don’t you think, Mr. Dolohov?”

The man in question gave a soft cough, embarrassed perhaps? Or just affronted by her outburst she wasn’t sure. “It was not my intention--”

“--Then what was your intention?” Snape scowled, irritated that much was clear, “To waste everyone's time?”

He gawked at the table and seemed to notice that several faces either reflected amusement or annoyance, “Hey now--”

“Rabastan and Rodolphus are watching our prisoner with the junior Aurors. I’d like to give them their orders soon so that we can take action and destroy this nuisance, so if you have nothing important to offer…?” Yaxley made an exasperated motion with his hand, jerking it in Hermione’s direction.

Surprisingly, Dolohov cleared his throat before he said, “I do apologize, Granger, it’s just… you see…”

That was probably the best she’d get from him, she didn’t have the energy to demand something more proper.

“I’ll see to your apology,” Luna said cheerfully, “In the form of penitence later.”

Dolohov grimaced but said nothing more, only turned his grim expression to Voldemort who gave a nod of approval and moved on.

“I am not so naive to believe that Ms. Granger is in fact in touch or assisting The Order, despite her and Ms. Lovegood’s former connections. If that were the case, I’d have to suspect Ms. Brown.”

“She ain’t havin’ nothing to do with that lot either, my Lord.” Greyback said.

“As I supposed. No, I don’t believe anyone here has been in touch at all.” The Dark Lord paused in His speech, thoughtful, allowing that statement to linger before He continued, “But whoever they’ve been in touch with doesn’t matter, only that we silence that point of contact and in turn The Order itself.”

“Will you execute Mr. Weasley?”

Hermione held her breath.

“Yaxley, what an odd conclusion. You see, Mr. Weasley claims to no longer be a part of The Order, not after the damage they’ve done to his family. I, in a merciful mood, am of a mind to let him live and consider his request.”

The table remained silent, absent of the normal rumblings Hermione had grown used to hearing from the pure-blood elite. Here, there was no questioning, at least not of Him. Here, His word was law, shared thought upon the hive He’d created.

“Mr. Weasley was gracious enough to part with some interesting information.” Red eyes moved about the table before they settled on Bellatrix, “Information that may lead to a raid.”

Now the mood around the table shifted. Bellatrix was abuzz with excitement. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and bit so strongly Hermione swore she saw pinpricks of red pool to the surface.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix croaked. Her magic was a seductive pulse, something that pushed and shoved against Hermione’s own until her own body ached with a need for action, to move, to get away, to get closer-- _anything._

When would this new sense ease?

“It has been a long time since such an act was necessary, but I’m sure you’re eager.”

“Extremely!” She laughed, that chilling cackle that seemed enough to make even Severus flinch.

“My Lord?” He interrupted, “A raid?”

“Or rescue, whichever title you prefer. You’ll be interested to know, Severus, that I am privy to the last known location The Order occupied. Mr. Weasley was more than willing to share it after our… initial discussion.”

So, beyond the courtroom walls, when they were alone and Hermione had been trapped, Bill had given him the keys to move forward. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Or rather, she wasn’t sure why she should feel anything about it, even though a part of her whispered it was wrong to feel nothing.

But she’d felt nothing for so long when it came to them.

“Bellatrix, you will take Ms. Granger to the location for a practical test of her ability.”

Hermione jerked in her seat, nearly disturbing the eerily quiet snake half lounged across her lap, “M-my Lord?”

From the corner of her eye she saw a small smirk occupy Dolohov’s face.

“What is it, Hermione?” His tone was steady, but the intensity of His gaze was nearly overwhelming, made more so due to the use of her first name. The familiarity at which He spoke it was unnerving.

“I would… ask you to reconsider. There are better suited candidates for such a task as important as this.”

“No,” He answered plainly, “There is no better witch or wizard more suited to this task than yourself. You will prove your ability, you will prove your loyalty, and you will learn more than you could ever comprehend within these walls. It has been sometime since you were called to war, there is much to discover when you are not restricted by petty notions of magic-based morality.”

He spoke with finality and she was His Firstborn. She knew, without a doubt, that she would obey.

“There is an art to completing a successful mission. It is one I know you’ve experience with.” For, she was nothing if not The Boy’s Golden Brain, “You will choose your allies wisely, a small team of four or five should suffice, and bring me results. The child is irrelevant--”

Hermione swallowed thickly.

“--but not to be disregarded. Should you discover the whereabouts of Mr. Weasley’s family it would be in your best interests to collect them. But… not at the sacrifice of The Order’s collapse.”

Hermione nodded, unable to trust her voice, unsure of what to say. The dread that should have filled her belly refused to come to her call, replaced only by nervous excitement and a chance to finally, _finally,_ use her talents.

“Mr. Weasley, though blood traitor he may be, is a pure-blood nonetheless. His progeny is no doubt redeemable. I’d like to salvage such a thing, if possible, to better the blood of those who may eventually be forgiven in our reign of graciousness--” Here the table chuckled softly, “—and focus of wizarding unity. Do you understand this concept?”

Because, while blood was still important, it was _power_ Voldemort sought. Power through control, power through the manipulation of supposed purity and the careful cultivation of loyal bloodlines. She nodded. She understood Him, more than some of those that claimed to worship Him.

“Failure has never been tolerated among my Inner Circle. It will not be tolerated now. I suspect you are aware that failure will bring discipline.”

A discipline that would be much worse than any she could imagine, no doubt. She could see it reflected in His gaze, the unspoken school of thought— _she was his Firstborn, His sponsored, His Marked and stolen prize._ It was time she proved her worth, her placement, her elevation. This, as well, was just another plot meant to maneuver her into position. To build her worth and wealth in the place where it counts--

Her _power_.

A power she’d eventually devote to Him.

“My Lord?” Bellatrix said, her tone breathy and curious, “Where am I to take her?”

Voldemort gave a soft sound of thought, “Ah, yes. It’s a home, rather familiar for you I suppose. It was under the Fidelius Charm. It’s great luck that Mr. Weasley just so happened to be the Secret-Keeper.”

The table murmured nervously, no longer statue still and silent.

“They’ve been there for several years, my sweet Bella. Not comfortably, of course, they move around from time to time, but there they were, hidden away like forgotten filth.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and leaned forward slightly, her body language the exact opposite of everyone else's--”Where…? Where have they been?”

Voldemort gave a soft laugh, though it was hollow and chilling, “Why, they’ve been at the Tonks residence.”

Owned and managed by a widowed Andromeda Tonks.


	12. before you go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the patience. I had some very nice discussions with another fanfiction author in the fandom (Greyella, on FF.net), that--coupled with my birthday trip to Harry Potter World in Orlando--kicked my muse into gear.

When the Dark Lord conquered Great Britain, the resulting pandemonium was all consuming. Those first two years were nightmarish in scale, foregoing the delicate nature of slow or peaceful transition. Through a combination of ruthlessness and slaughter London, and those directly surrounding wizarding communities, found themselves brutally scrubbed of law and morality. The Hunt commanded all available bodies, those who wanted to survive, who wanted to _live_ , begged and pleaded for a horse of their own the ride alongside those in dark cloaks and masks. Terror drove neutral and idle hands to action screaming to prove their worth, and greed made Light dissenters desperate. Sure, there had been tell of a few clusters of resistance here and there, just idle pockets of naysayers and those unwilling to bow, but The Hunt held the power of unrelenting corruption, unyielding toward individual declarations of self-interest, and merciless. It struck those who so much as breathed hope down into the muck and took their heads in village squares with transfigured blades black with blood. 

Pure or not.

Hermione had spent the bulk of that time--or so she assumed, as time had become irrelevant within her prison, as the wails of the desperate and the stench of decay consumed her thoughts--waiting for sentence. Her trial was set, murmured by anxious guards, to be held on the anniversary of the Dark Lord’s victory. During her _time of reflection_ , those first few uncertain months, she had nothing but fractured memories and shame to keep her company while she dreamed of moments in time where more could have been done while mysteries from scenes she hadn’t witnessed left gaping holes in her overall account of a battle they’d clearly lost. The year began its crawl, and she found it difficult to separate the truth of her remembrance from the fantasy of her nightmares. A budding madness wriggled and bit at her consciousness until she hadn’t been sure what she’d heard and seen or really hadn’t.

_Once, during her prison tenure, she thought she’d seen a sweet familiar face, slick with sweat and desperation, refined and with a lack of the baby-fat she’d grown used to seeing. The boy from the greenhouse, her mind had whispered, the boy who was roughly grabbed and dragged away from her cell--where he clung as they tried to march him past--while he screamed her name and pleaded for them to wait just one more bloody **minute--**_

For a time, she’d desperately held onto the idea that she’d seen them, different faces from her past that once inspired sensations of camaraderie and hope dragged or carted by her cell in a constant reminder of her situation and the terror that accompanied it. Yet, with such visions came nightmarish realizations. The screams and wallowing laughter--sobs that often turned to maniacal screeched guffawing-- haunted her waking moments just as surely as the whispered proclamations that came from her half-attentive guards.

‘They broke ‘is wand,’ a voice whispered, ‘poor thing sobbed somethin’ awful, but they broke it and sent him off.’

‘They?’

‘Umbridge, an ‘er lot,’ the wheezing tone answered.

‘They still doin’ that?’

‘He wants ‘em round up, for now. ‘E’s got plans, they say, ‘n He wants them all together.’

And Hermione knew, just from that statement, that things would get a lot worse before they got better. But still, for a time, there had been… hope. Never mind the yowling, the wailing, the intense _undeniable agony every time **they** came by with raspy breath, chilling aura, and unnatural hunger._ She thought, no… she knew that if she just held on there would be freedom. Release in death or by the machinations of The Order.

Or The Boy with the curse-green gaze.

But the world continued to turn, and the guards were inadvertently cruel. Feeding her from beyond the bars their juicy tidbits of political advancement. Whispering doubts and eagerness. Muttering about systems and caste priority in the same breath they described incomprehensible tortures. She knew, just from those first few months, in between the waking dream-like consciousness the Dementors barely left her with, that The Dark Lord had ravaged more than just Muggle-borns and blood traitors.

He would break everything he owned, it seemed, before he allowed any of them to worship and though her trembling guards did not speak it, they were worried.

Good.

Eventually, The Hunt began to taper and a proper order settled. By then, such morsels of information weren’t consolable. Her mind wandered too much, her tongue felt too thick, and her ribs too pronounced. The Sacred took their proper place besides their mighty Lord while those lesser settled into a content sense of gentry-hood that kept them docile and pleased. Whether this was an official assessment was unknown, she didn’t have enough control for cunning and complexity. Not while her fingertips lightly scratched at the dust and moisture that lined her four walls and her throat croaked out a hum to some song she no longer remembered correctly. The world beyond her _home_ seemed irrelevant. There was only numbness and the soft whispers of those that had fallen flapping their lips at her mentality as if she understood the importance of survivor's guilt.

Those concepts had been the first to go, when it came to desperately maintaining her intellect. Intellect she couldn’t properly utilize but she knew it was there--

_Because He couldn’t take that from her. Not yet. No matter what else He snatched and twisted._

But then a year had come and gone and with it a sudden decommissioning of the Muggle-born Registration Department and other such nonsense laws that caused a ripple of anxiety to flex among the populace as strict but still… functional… regulations took their place.

And a judgement of worth.

She hadn’t understood it really, but her understanding of anything beyond her immediate surrounding was piss-poor at best. Yet, she knew something was amiss when the ominous rumble of her cell shook her space and it reeled back with a rattle and loud **clack.**

_‘Alright, Mudblood--’_

_Because, that was her name… for a time._

_‘Today is the day.’_

She could have given them trouble, she deserved the right to screech and struggle, but she went with empty stare and wide open mouth--and a smile that was, perhaps, a little disconcerting to the guard that sourly escorted her toward the exit of her mysterious Dementor riddled prison--for, she never had determined if Azkaban was where they’d whisked her too after the battle or if she had occupied some other inescapable residence. She’d sworn a guard had ranted about the sudden destruction of most major wizarding prisons in return for simple execution.

Was that where the bulk of her comrades had gone? To the chopping block? To rest and peace?

She tittered maddeningly, excited to meet them, excited for something other than the darkness and the weight of her failure.

If her escorts had cared, they certainly didn’t say so.

The journey to her fate had been uneventful, just a parading of her dirtied malnourished person among a village square that she couldn’t recognize nor tried to. He’d stood at the center, in the full regalia expected of elevated royalty but the black hooded persons on either side of Him (a total of six, making Him their centerpiece seven, a good magical number) were unrecognizable in their uniformity. Not that it mattered, the moonlight seemed a tad too bright and her squinting gaze could only produce just a blurry watery smudge. The only thing she could really determine was the blood-stained circle of sand squished beneath her dirty unmanaged feet and that the crowd that encompassed their center was unnaturally… large.

Off to the side, with wand set to throat and a floating parchment stood a squat short-statured squiggle dressed in muted colors. Its lips were twisted up, giving it a sort of grotesque appearance to Hermione’s half-focused vision but she supposed it should be, she must look positively frightful herself. She couldn’t blame the squiggle for its disgust---

_‘Undesirable Number One, Mudblood Granger, my Lord and Minister.’ The voice crowed, amplified, decidedly feminine, and snide in nature._

_Apparently, she had leveled up over the last year or so._

_‘Speak her crimes for our most gracious Lord,’ A voice answered, masculine, superior, and devoid of emotion._

_‘Of course, Minister,’ The other answered, before clearing her throat with a delicate… hem hem, ‘Crimes against wizardkind include, but are not limited to:  Unregistered Mudblood, magical terrorist, treason against our Most Gracious Lord, treason against our Most Noble Ministry, offense toward The Sacred, dangerous and unauthorized use of a wand, disrespect of customs and culture, endangerment to the International Statute of Secrecy, and destruction and theft of Gringotts’ property and fellow Sacred blood vaults.’_

_And perhaps, a great many more crimes, though Hermione didn’t remember them._

_‘Mudblood Granger’s crimes against wizardkind are large and vast. We have summarized them for your pleasure, my Lord.’ The masculine voice cooed, his tone now infused with lively delight, ‘We await your guidance.’_

_For a moment, there was a rumble among the crowd but Hermione felt disconnected and oblivious. Her breath was a raspy wheeze, her gaze glassy and unfocused and her mind a twisted spiral, focused only on the fact that she was… somewhere important, exposed to something horrific, but the babbling swaying shapes only tickled the edge of her frazzled consciousness._

_She could only hiss as the grip of her guards tightened on her slightly sagging form._

_‘What is her name,’ He spoke, a sibilant mass of danger and curiosity._

_That was apparently enough to catch the other two shapes off guard, for one sputtered and the other croaked out a quick-- ‘Mudblood Granger, sir.’_

_For a moment silence reigned and slowly He turned His gaze to the squat feminine blob that had addressed Him, ‘The supposed Greatest Witch of Her Time, Current Undesirable Number One, The Brains of the Golden Trio, and the pet of my defeated enemy… her birth title, given to her by Muggles--’_

_For a moment He seemed amused, His voice appeared to reflect as much, but expression wise she saw nothing but smudged darkness created by a raised hood, ‘Is Mudblood Granger?’_

_The masculine figure was quick to give answer, ‘Hermione Granger, sir. Hermione Jean Granger.’_

_He paused for a moment, His hands casually linked together before Him, ‘So this is the famous Hermione Jean Granger? Painfully Muggle name and average for a powerful Undesirable, except for the first title. Very witch-like, to be sure.’_

_With some inspiration from Muggle literature._

_‘And what is Ms. Granger, exactly? A Ravenclaw? A Hufflepuff?’_

_No one responded, it wasn’t a statement meant to be answered. He knew what she was, **who** she’d been._

_‘Certainly, not a Slytherin… so she must be a lioness.’ His voice was sharp and whip-like, His statement ended crisply._

_The other two figures said nothing in response, though a cloaked blur or two seemed to look His way._

_‘What say you?’ He spoke, and though He did not address any of His immediate company by name one replied all the same--_

_‘She could be trouble, my Lord,’ a voice drawled, painfully familiar and yet her mind found it difficult to grasp the intangible memory of cauldrons and flickering lantern light, ‘but useful. Her worth is not in blood, but in power and symbolism.’_

_‘Symbolism? And this is something you believe or propose?’_

_‘I propose it, based on the assumption that He-Who-Is-Not would have failed without her.’ He took a moment, as if in thought, before he finished, ‘and we are merciful to those who suffered from Albus machinations, are we not?’_

_That inspired slurred speech from the crowd and a clumsy bark of laughter that faded into a haunted wail from Hermione._

_As the sound faded, leaving tense silence, He addressed the speaker, ‘The Hunt has left us with an unfortunate deficiency in able magical bodies.’_

_The speaker let silence stretch between them before he answered, ‘She would fill a hole of competency and purpose, should you assign it. When she bows, the others will crumble.’_

_‘This one is worth the many? We have more than enough Mudbloods to worship the gentry.’_

_‘But none that have truly earned the right to exist.’_

_Their cryptic statements, heavy with implications she refused to waste precious energy contemplating, ended then, silence by a wave of His hand as He turned back to the Minister and the crowd._

_‘Then let us do this properly.’_

There wasn’t much talking after that, only a sound of cruel amusement as Voldemort raised a pale hand before His person flat and fingers extended while the flesh of His arm up to elbow revealed itself due to the sliding weight of His expensive robes. He called for a vote to His surrounding counsel, the emperor set to perform for benefit of the people. While Hermione waited for death as individual ‘nays’ and few ‘ayes’ floated around her, she kept a steady gaze upon His hovering hand. Only when the last voice spoke, the one He’d addressed initially, with a curt ‘aye’ did He curl His hand into a fist and extend His thumb.

It stayed up.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Her prison for the year after that had been a clinically sterile room at St. Mungo's, where she’d been assigned a proper, though a tad bit reluctant, Mind Healer, a statement of probation--one that forbid her to do many things, including gallivanting about Hogwarts--and an order to obtain a new wand and purpose, for the Dark Lord would not tolerate the stagnant if they were not Sacred. What she learned as she regained her sanity--or a semblance of what represented stability--was that those who shared her blood status had not been carted off for the slaughter and that the initial insanity of the first few months so long ago had eased into the careful cultivation, assignment, and hoarding of wizards, Muggle-born or otherwise.

The Order as she knew it, however, was gone along with her innocence and naivety.

Voldemort’s need for blood lessened, bringing tentative calm and whatever passed for dark-natured peace. As the second year of her existence beyond prison walls rolled to a close The Dark began preaching a new tale of magical retention. Those that fled or cast aside their heritage for Muggles and less popular views (Light or otherwise) were the new generation of ‘blood traitors’; those who meant to destroy wizardkind made progression. While those that remained were promised reward and lavish lifestyle among their peers and betters, coddled into a sense of false equality where some were given more than others based on the heads they rolled for their Lord. Either way, Hermione kept to the regulations that governed her continued existence, never asking who among her comrades had been executed or assimilated, while the new government did whatever research and changes they were wont to do. She would not be drug off into the night for treason or sass against The Sacred.

But, she would have never assumed that years later she would be among them, hunched over and tightly clutching her hands together as heated whispers that often elevated into abnormal screeching bounced off the walls from the hall right beyond her vision.

At least the yelling wasn’t at her.

Yet, how cowardly of her to merely sit there, like a chastised child, outside the Malfoy dining quarters due to a bit of impassioned speech. Not very Gryffindorish at all, if she were honest. Which meant it was time to stop wallowing through her fragmented memories and soothe the disgruntled aristocracy just outside the door.

With a sigh, Hermione slowly peeked around the corner, holding to the edge of the wall with only head and chest exposed, just encase she had to twist back around to dodge a hex or two from the women standing in the center of the decorated hall. Best to give them less surface space to hit so the temptation wasn’t there, “What is the point of having a private conversation, when you two cannot do so privately?”

Silence, blessed and treasured, greeted her along with the sight of a trembling Narcissa and a hard-frowning Bellatrix.

“Cissy,” Bellatrix sneered, an emotion unrestrained as Bellatrix peered at her younger sister with upturned lips and flared nostrils, “It’s unbecoming of a lady to yell.”

Narcissa narrowed red-rimmed eyes--and for a moment, Hermione was surprised to realize the cold woman’s cheeks seemed moist--before she cleared a dry and scratchy throat, “I suppose, but what would Mother have said if she’d heard all that… screeching?”

Bellatrix swallowed harshly, “ **I** was whispering.”

“I’m sure you were,” Narcissa hissed, but the impact was lessened by a seeping exhaustion.

With a movement, jerky and whip-like enough to make Hermione flinch, Bellatrix shoved forward, using just the mere presence of her authority--imposing, despite her stature--to back Narcissa up until her back bounced against the opposite wall. Briefly, Hermione thought of ducking back around the corner. The pair hadn’t seemed to register her presence beyond her initial interruption, but the sound of Bellatrix palms against the wall as she used her outstretched arms to cage her sister between them was enough of a deterrent. Narcissa seemed unbothered. Her face had smoothed out into the perfect mask of elite disinterest, but her arms were limp at her side. Despite her expression, she seemed unnaturally fragile trapped as she was, even if, give or take, she was a mere inch or so taller than her wicked sibling.

“I should kill her for her treason,” Bellatrix words were contemplative but strained, her declaration heavy with the weight of an emotion that twisted her voice into something foreign.

Narcissa’s tone, despite her expression, carried enough pain for the both of them, even if Bellatrix seemed incapable of expressing it properly. “ **Don’t.** ”

There’s a harsh and rapid series of breath from the other before she shook her head, subdued--or tamed, Hermione thought--by the power Narcissa carried in the depths of her moisture struck gaze. “It’s not up to me.”

“Do not lie to me, Bellatrix Cassiopeia Black.”

“Cissy--”

“--Your drivel doesn’t work on the astute.”

“You dare--!”

“And furthermore,” Narcissa snarled, “It is _your_ duty as reinstated Lord--”

“Lord--!?”

“--Lady,” Narcissa lifted a hand to shove just slightly at Bellatrix chest, “and bring home those who were lost to corruption.”

Bellatrix opened and closed her mouth for a moment, her flushed cheeks and narrowed gaze mirroring an emotion just shy of fury, “Cissy--”

“The Order _can’t have her!_ ” Narcissa suddenly bellowed, stomping her foot in an act of petulance that made Hermione nearly jerk back around her corner. Suddenly, she felt like an invader, some insolent force viewing a private moment between adults who weren’t quite healed from parental inflicted wounds.

For a time, only Bellatrix heavy breathing filled the quiet between them, but when she spoke it was with slight hesitance, “I… did look for her, Cissy. She didn’t want to be found.”

“You were much too aggressive and savage then,” Narcissa countered. “And her husband--”

Here Bellatrix grew tense and for a moment Hermione could see Bellatrix struggle, some flickering immense disgust and heated rage that ravaged her expression at even considering Edward “Ted” Tonks anything connected to her sibling. It made Hermione’s stomach churn for just a moment, before she realized it had to be something more. Prejudice, at least against blood, wasn’t enough of a motivator for hatred--now that He had made such concepts irrelevant.

No, Bellatrix did not hate Ted because he’d been Muggle-born--though, in the past that would have been reason enough for her--she hated him because she was incredibly selfish.

And so was Narcissa, “She _belongs_ to us now.”

Then, of the pair, Narcissa spared her a quick glance. She held her breath for a moment, due to the indescribable and completely _Black_ nature of Narcissa’s chill. Yet, as quickly as she had made eye contact the Malfoy matron broke it.

And in place of her sorrows, the smile she gave her sister was more wicked than encouraging, “Go. Get. Her--” 

Bellatrix snorted, shoulders tense and gaze downcast… up until Narcissa’s gentle coo of--

“--Big Sister.”

Bellatrix hissed then, immensely pleased. Hermione could see it in her sudden release of tension and the way her body trembled with the beginnings of wild laughter. Nothing more needed to be said, other than a softly purred, “Okay.”

Then, as if a switch had been flicked she released Narcissa from her arm-crafted cage and swaggered away, retreating to the darker recess of the corridor and effectively leaving Hermione and her sister alone.

Without so much as a word tossed in her direction.

“Rude,” Hermione uttered under her breath, not entirely sure why she felt the rolling discontent shift through her stomach at the lack of acknowledgement.

“Quite,” Narcissa agreed, but she seemed more occupied with lightly dabbing at her cheeks with a Malfoy emblemed handkerchief and around her eyes in a motion that seemed casual but purposeful, “She could never leave a conversation properly. 

Though her voice was steady and the tremble of her hands calmed there was still some resemblance of exhaustion clinging to the other witch, some overall look of diffused energy and expended emotion.

“Are you okay?” Hermione said, cautious, curious, and--she found herself surprised to admit--concerned.

“It’s fine,” Narcissa replied, with clipped tone and a erratic movement as she put her initialed cloth away, back into the confines of form fitting robes “Bella will handle it.”

Hermione felt doubtful, disenchanted by visions of a battle-mad Bellatrix, impassioned and ill-controlled. Would she remember, when the clock struck time and their attack commenced, to spare certain individuals? To give Hermione control over their bloodlines, their very existence?

Furthermore, would she herself remember the meaning of mercy when the time came, all to keep her soul from shattering? Oddly enough, the overall idea of slaughter did not bring the churning sensations of nausea and disgust she’d expected. This was not the first time she’d killed, or attempted--in the name of justice--to destroy. Only an adaptive and comforting numb came to greet her, swaddling her mind in a cloud of inconsequence and reluctant acceptance. Acknowledgement of the nature of her task didn’t take long and that in itself should have been worrisome. But long nights spent wide awake and malcontent, with the whispering seduction of a Lord’s horcrux about her neck had left her with some… twitchy quirks that her stint among Dementors hadn’t eased.

The only other emotion, among the adoption of her task, was an odd excitement--the very same that had struck her when she’d sat among the Dark Lord’s court. Even now her heart pattered away, stimulated by half formulated scenes and ideas that ran amuck along her malignant tainted imagination.

Concerning, that too was definitely concerning.

“I’ll be counting on you, Hermione.”

She resisted the urge to twist her face into an expression of discomfort, “Bellatrix has the experience, I’m sure. I expected her to lead.”

Narcissa allowed silence to linger between them, thick and uncomfortable, before she shook her head and motioned for Hermione to follow--which she did, in an action more thoughtless and reactionary than conscious. “He expects you to prove yourself. Bella is merely your supervisor.”

To this Hermione wrinkled her nose, “Am I so young, in the eyes of the elite, that I need a chaperone?”

Twinkling laughter greeted her, ominous yet calming, “One is never too young to be watched over, should they have a moment of fright and find it fitting to flee.”

“You believe that I would run?”

“You’re a Gryffindor, I don’t suspect _you_ to run…”

“Then why imply it?” Hermione snorted.

“...When the time for judgement comes and you find yourself standing on the edge, teetering on the pinnacle of your personal sense of law or someone else's there may come a time when fear of the unknown warps the best decision, the _right_ decision, which has no distinction between humanities predesignated concept of what is _wrong._ ”

Narcissa had stopped her movement, held just beyond the threshold of one of the manor’s many lavish receiving rooms. She stood, with hand raised and fingers lightly caressing the purposely knotted wood--wards, she’d learned, carved and cultivated by Malfoy magic--that decorated the entrance to the open space. Yet, she blocked Hermione’s path and stared with a solemn gaze, a gaze that reflected a lifetime of ‘what ifs’ and ‘should I dos’. There were so many moments in the space of a lifetime, so many actions one could take to determine the flow of time, but a witch couldn’t always predict the impact their individual choices could make and a prophecy can only guide so much outside of natural ability. Here, in the hallway, as Hermione steadily contemplated upon a hunched back and a closed off poise, she understood one undeniable truth about existence.

Fear of spoiling oneself, of destroying another, of _feeling,_ only came right before the action meant to do so. At the highest point, whether her body remained or not, her mind could run--wild, amok, and out of control. One moment of hesitation, one incantation said without the intensity of meaning and purpose, could cause a spell to go awry. One cannot cast a spell to inflict pain if most of their being doesn’t want to do so. Likewise, one cannot kill to save stability if one is afraid to do so.

Was Hermione afraid to kill?

When she’d worked for the cause, when The Order had been the bright and shining beacon of prosperity and justice, she had mostly fought to maim. During the final battle, when the squish and slickness of blood lined the bottom of her sneakers and the cries of the manic rung in her ears, she had thought, for just one moment…

_That she really could slay them all._

And she had tried, certainly, with spells beyond the Killing Curse, but who was to say she’d really killed or not? In some portion of her, buried and sick, she knew that she had. But, logically? Well, it’s not like she’d visited a thestral lately to check and her memories of that time were sticky at best.

“When Andromeda left,” Narcissa murmured, her voice so low that Hermione had to step closer to her back to hear her words, “I was terrified.”   

Hermione swallowed a few choice words knowing what it felt like to abruptly destroy one's family.

“The House of Slytherin isn’t known for an abundance of courage or the ability to standout. We are the cunning and ambitious, carefully controlled and assumed for greatness. Over the years, that meaning, the intensity of our dedication and our ability to manage long lasting relationships while achieving the impossible diminished. New ideals, lacking the refinement of our ancestors, took their place due to pressure from those who claimed they’d keep us safe.”

She lightly tapped upon the wood in thought and in doing so managed to make a few glimmering lights trail along the grooves it hosted, “Bravery is not an inherent aspect of our being, though it can mean many things once learned. Having the courage to provide correction, to do what one wishes, while maintaining the intellect and duplicity to accomplish that, no matter the opposition, is a rare trait… even among other houses. Even among the collected gentry.”

Not inherently evil. Not inherently good. Hermione knew that now, knew that a certain amount of artful distinction was necessary when it came to the execution of any _good_ plan. No matter the justification or supposed righteousness of the goal.

“So, it is understandable that, in my youth, I found it difficult to correct my enraged family. Not because I lacked the courage to do so--though that is a part of it--but because it was easier not to and terror helped finalize that perception. A Slytherin can easily be seduced into silence by those that hold power, and my aunt, with her fantastical ideals, was certainly an example of that.”

“But…” Hermione started, knowing there was more.

“But,” Narcissa sighed, “If I had been a tad more brave--and no, dear, not a Gryffindor, for it takes a Slytherin’s touch to pacify a Slytherin--I might have been able to explain the difference between what is easy and what is _right._ ”

“And what is that? What was right, in that situation?”

“Blasting Andromeda off the family tree is easy, rejecting her from the family is an acceptable reaction among haughtier pure-blood circles when one marries unfavorably. The _right_ thing to do, would have been much harder and I don’t suspect Father would have held the patience or maturity to accomplish it.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose, her original suspicion of Narcissa’s answer derailed due to her choice of words.

“You see, Hermione dear, it is the responsibility of a Lord of their house to keep said house together. Father was not a man of infallible power at the time and maybe the lack of respect from Grandfather fueled his original decision but it would have been proper for him, any of them really, to seek his wayward child and bring her _back._ It would have been _right_ to flush her of her idealistic fantasies—her petty rebellion--while binding Edward Tonks in a contract of fealty to the House of Black, upon proving magical proficiency of course, for line theft.”

Then Narcissa smiled, so very genuine and yet no less fiendish than any other time she felt pleased, despite the soft affection reflected in her gaze as she tossed a sly look over her shoulder to a stiffly standing Hermione, “It’s been done before and we had the resources for the binding. Having a Muggle-Born vassal at the time could have been game changing, in a manner most political. A neophyte of wizarding culture, raised _proper_ and _right._ It would have certainly kept the Light from its constant instigations of vulgarity, lawlessness, blood prejudice, and line madness they found fit to fling toward our name. Whether or not such allegations were true.”

Narcissa’s light laugh thereafter was almost childlike in it’s supposed innocence, “I think it would have been imperative in elevating our worthiness before those who blindly followed Albus like tamed sheep. A good Slytherin would have seen the move for what it was, a grand advantage and a play at ‘mercy’ and ‘understanding’ is just what the simple-minded need from their gracious nobility. A _great_ Slytherin would have fattened his ranks with obedient well-mannered worshipping Muggle-borns, using them as a shield in the fight for prosperity of the elite. It’s just that… it wouldn’t have been _easy._ ”

Hermione sucked in a breath through clenched teeth but found Narcissa’s solution no more perverse than the notion of raising a child to die.

“Now then,” Narcissa continued, giving a slight roll of her shoulders before she moved to enter the receiving room. “It’s almost evening and a lady should always take tea after court.”

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

While Hermione pondered how likely it was that Narcissa attended the court of the Wizengamot when able she’d nearly missed the fact that something had crunched underfoot. That something turned out to be crumbled and balled up pieces of parchment and when she crouched in place for further investigation she felt the slight weight of something bounce off the top of her head.

Another ball of ruined misused parchment.

What was once a quiet and cozy area had turned into a warzone of half formulated ideas and ink smudged pages, most of them scandalously displayed on the open books littering the floor and strategically placed couches. It was a storm of quills and half-empty ink pots, some of which were scribbling away, enchanted and autonomous, in journals while others lay dead and forgotten, lacking the magic to power them across the torn parchment they had massacred. It was all incredibly... messy.

“Who let you in here?” Narcissa whispered, and while her tone seemed steady her overall demeanor screamed aghast. It was in the twitch of her wand hand and the way her other hand moved to cover her mouth, as if she could swallow back her gasp of horror at the sight of the conquered room. 

Hermione, for other reasons, held a mirror reflection of the older witch’s expression. Not because she cared for the former order that held all of Narcissa’s rooms in harmony--not that she lacked respect for clean floors and well-managed shelves--but because of the person that occupied the space. A figure that--though she knew existed--she hadn’t expected to ever see again, formally or otherwise. It was startling, almost enough to throw her off balance as weak knees shook and she rose from her crouch on the floor. At the very least this kept her from further bombardment by torn parchment, if the sudden vicious sound of tearing paper was any indication. 

Narcissa’s uncharacteristic and though completely understood sound of outrage was only interrupted by the posh and proper tone that addressed her, swaddled in distracted irritation--

“Honestly, Narcissa. It’s just a book, easily replaceable.” The voice drawled, and the owner hardly bothered to expend the energy to lift her head--with its dainty small hat of violet pinned to the side, helping to restrain what could barely be described as a professional bun of curly blonde hair that continued to escape the quill that was twirled among the locks and twitching every so often.

“You overstep your bounds, Ms. Skeeter,” Narcissa’s voice was chilling, a soft drilling whisper that drew icy licks of building displeasure across Hermione’s spine.

That got her attention, if the rapidly blinking eyes were anything to go by and the tensing of once slouched shoulders as the reporter drew back away from her writings to level her gaze upon the aristocrat that addressed her.

Magic crawled along her skin, so cold, so very cold, and swept past her hair with the scent of things decidedly _winter---_ pine, mint... But there was something wild in it, something so familiar and _thick_ , something that reminded her of… Bellatrix, and yet subtle differences were still painfully apparent. It was all Narcissa, trembling yet controlled, and it was more than enough to grasp Skeeter’s attention.

Her pale cheeks went a tad rosy and she cleared her throat before averting her gaze, decidedly submissive. As she should have been, “Ah, I apologize Lady Malfoy. I assure you I meant no offense. I appreciate your property.”

Skeeter’s tone, though even, seemed somewhat coy and sly in mannerism, as if there lacked a threat of biting cruelty from the mistress of the manor. It was enough to nearly make Hermione forget the coil of anxiety that licked at her belly, quickly followed by indignation on Narcissa behalf. How dare anyone or anything disrespect the scarcity of books and the safe spaces that held them.

“Are you? Really?” Hermione said, care to hide her want for snark. It would do her no good to act beyond the regality of her new station, at least, not under Narcissa’s watchful gaze.

Still, her interruption was enough to lift Skeeter’s gaze from the floor so that the full extent of her focus was upon Hermione. For a moment, she felt… vulnerable. She was a child again struggling against the looming pressure of a war against her rights to exist. It brought a queasy sensation to her stomach, a shaking breath that struggled to filter past her parted lips. This woman, though not the first, was just another adult that had taken her name and slung it through the muck for the betterment of their own being… and it was that thought that grounded her, and… perhaps the thought of the woman trapped--a subject of her mercies, held within a jar, weak and exposed and oh so terrified.

Skeeter suddenly swallowed hard and leaned back on the couch, uneasy, if the wary pinch of her brow were any indication.

Delightful, she let her thoughts remain in the rolling brown of her gaze.

“Lady Granger,” Skeeter started, her hands clasped upon her lap with ink-stained fingertips, “I apologize, I must admit that I did originally lack sincerity.”

Hermione did her best interpretation of Narcissa’s own steely stare as the woman at her side gave off an unlady-like snort. There’s an excited thud to her heart, one brought on by the absolute reverence and startling honesty in Skeeter’s tone. This wicked woman, with her uncanny talent in manipulation and word-weaving, was no longer the one with the power. She wrung her hands in anxious patience, and kept her gaze somewhere just off the side of her shoulder. It was clear that Hermione held the influence in the space, not the reporter.

She licked her lips swallowed the command for Skeeter to bow.

She was not an inherently cruel person after all, but the blanket of authority smothered most of her reason--she’d have to blame that one on the fact that she yearned for a freedom only granted to the pure, for one taste of unfettered power without the bindings of morality, for selfishness and pleasure...

She took a deep breath and rubbed her chest, nervous… restless.

“Do it correctly then, would you dear?”

That was enough to grasp Skeeter’s attention, Narcissa’s cold ask more of a demand. Perhaps the statement caught her off balance, for the other witch held no reservations about twisting her lips up into a frightful expression of crossness, but Hermione was well aware of Skeeter’s house and it took no time at all for the Slytherin alumni to correct her facial features into a perfectly mimicked mask of indifference.

“As you wish.”

She stood from the couch, back stiff and shoulders drawn, but did not dally when it came to walking around the coffee table and sweeping back the outer robe she wore over spider-silk blouse and practical skirt. She moved into a sweeping curtsey, one that might have been more impactful if she held a fistful of the billowing skirts Bellatrix often wore instead of the crisp and clean robe she currently lifted.

Yet, it was at least a genuine act--or a good enough copy.

“I do apologize, Lady Malfoy, for my inappropriate usage of your receiving room, with its majestic libraries and well-held secrets.” Though the words were delivered with a bit of prose Hermione could not detect any suspected sarcasm. She supposed that was proper, considering the might and magic of the woman she currently apologized to, “In my quest for knowledge I’ve disrespected Malfoy property and the trust your ancient house invested in me. Do not hesitate to take what you must from the Skeeter vaults.”

As Skeeter’s tone tapered off Narcissa lifted a brow but Hermione could tell the Malfoy matron had been properly soothed. The icy grip of her magic lessened into a calming hum and even Hermione found her breath came easier. Still, she kept her lips pressed thin in obvious distrust not bothering to hide her dislike. Skeeter had done her no favors during her tenure at Hogwarts.

At least she wasn’t Umbridge.

With a nervous lick of lips Skeeter righted herself and came closer with the sort of caution one might give to a feral animal. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Narcissa she gave that expression to, but Hermione.

“Lady Granger,” The report said, with just the smallest bit of unease, “… was that sufficient?”

Narcissa tried to repress a twitch of lips while Hermione blinked in mild disbelief, “You’re asking me? And not…?” 

“Well,” Skeeter relaxed, but only slightly, “I’m no fool. There’s a tension so thick in here I could write on it. I can very well guess the reason for it but things have changed. The Dark Lord made certain of that. You’re the one with the leash and I’m the dog at the end, you know.”

“What a vulgar explanation,” Narcissa said, but her voice was nearly playful in its admission, “Don’t be so blunt about the power she has over you.”

Skeeter gave her a scathing look, “Says the one who made me practically prostrate myself before her?”

“And you are hardly finished,” Narcissa continued, her lips now twisted in a leer befitting her Black heritage. “Address her.”

“Of course,” Skeeter sighed, but there was only resignation in her gaze, not the expected loathing or irritation at being bossed around or forced to acknowledge her. A curious reaction, more so than the familiarity in which Narcissa now addressed her with.

Skeeter extended a hand, one adorned with two rings--one which looked like shiny obsidian, thick banded with a simple delicate S carved into the violet gem that adorned the center while the other looked silver, sparsely decorated with shiny stones. “May I?”

Hermione looked to Narcissa for guidance, knowing that in this one moment she had been swept into an impromptu lesson on ritual and propriety. The oddly fond glimmer in the depths of her gaze was all Hermione needed to allow her flesh in contact with the ringed hand of someone who she quite considered to be an enemy.

Then again, so much was already changing.

“Congratulations, Lady Granger, on your prestigious elevation. The first of our brethren, once lost among traitors and muck, found and brought _home_ , to build a glorious future for those who are worthy.”

Her gaze grew wide at the fervent throaty purr of the older witch who held her hand. She was pinned, held firmly clasped in grip and gaze, by the power of Skeeter’s eyes, green, calculating, sly, and just a bit mischievous. It wasn’t a look she’d ever expected directed toward her, especially not by this _woman_ , but the disgust she anticipated to feel, from her company or herself, never came. Instead there was only the heavy weight of curiosity.   

“As His trusted Herald I will be sure to sing of your praises, from mountain to shore. The people--the pure and courageous--are waiting to worship, my Lady.”

Then, with a flourish, Skeeter bowed. Soft pink lips were pressed against Hermione's bare knuckles while the reporter's free hand swept back her robes in a manner more dashing than feminine. For one brief moment Hermione’s nostrils flared, and the warmth of Skeeter’s lips against her skin was enough to make her shiver, though not with displeasure. She parted her lips, words set on the tip of her tongue, but found them all inadequate when set to the moment. Skeeter was gentle with her press and grip but there was still a buzzing sort of intensity about her, one that took away any doubt that her words were just some frivolous ploy coated in sugary praise. From one heartbeat to the next Hermione felt hyper-focused, pulled in by the connotations behind the lips on her skin and the allure of _power_ that swept through her at Skeeter’s political submission. She surrendered to her in just a simple motion, without a single lick of irritation at the structure of their past. Perhaps, had she been less aware of Narcissa’s careful lessons in mannerisms of the elite and the hidden meaning between words and body language, she might have thought Skeeter’s words sputtered nonsense. But something in her, something _hungry_ and ready to _consume_ , recognized otherwise.

She’d forgive her, but only if she could control her.

Then the moment was over and Skeeter relinquished her hand so that she could stretch with arms high above her head and keen with delight, “How was that? Cissa?”

Narcissa smiled, a clear and rare display of warmth even if there was lingering tension in her brow. Things moved forward and whatever Hermione had felt from the moment was gone and she welcomed the comfortable numb that settled over her shoulders and the slight moisture Skeeter left on her kissed knuckles. 

She could examine her reaction later.

“How charming, Rita. I’d dare say you were almost flirting with His Chosen.

Rita sneered somewhat, but there was a lack of viciousness in the motion, “And risk dismemberment by her betrothed?”

“She’s courting me, not betrothed to me,” Hermione replied, but she didn’t sound very sure of her statement.

Either way, the older witches continued their conversation, “Your act of respect and praise seemed to linger, Rita.”

Skeeter gasped, “Don’t go spreading that around. He is extremely proper. One doesn’t threaten a sanctioned courting. I won’t be accused of improper line theft.”

“All line theft is improper,” Narcissa corrected, “but at least you’re learning. Why, six years ago you could barely call yourself ready to embrace our traditions and dedicate to the cause.”

Skeeter gave a wave of dismissal, “I’ve always been ready,” But her voice was low, troubled.

There was obvious history between the women in the room and Hermione pondered on their affiliation. Perhaps they had both traversed the halls of Hogwarts together? It was enough to make her wonder at their true ages. It was difficult to tell. They were both gorgeous with nary a wrinkle between them. Narcissa with her unearthly beauty and shapely body and Skeeter with a certain down to earthness that accentuated her perfect skin and slender form--which Hermione had to begrudgingly admit was attractive. They were ‘young’ in wizarding terms, kept beautiful and energetic by the magic saturation of their cores, considered rambunctious but wise in their current term compared to the Muggle equivalent. To them and most of the wizarding elite, Hermione was still a child, entering the most precarious points of her life and desperately in need of appropriate guidance. If she had been born with such pure aspirations and swaddled in the traditions of her company she would have been sent to tutelage with the Lord of her house, to gain a deeper understanding of her place and her responsibilities within the family that _owned_ her through blood.

Narcissa was doing a good enough job of that, Hermione supposed.

Still, it was the lack of playful banter that drew Hermione from her thoughts and soon enough she realized that the conversation had stopped. Skeeter had become somewhat withdrawn and anxious, idly rubbing the smudged ink on her fingertips around--and thank Merlin none of it had rubbed off on her own skin. Narcissa, on the other hand, had taken to placing a hand upon Skeeter’s bicep. It was enough to make the other witch clear her throat.

“Lady Granger, please, do call me Rita.” She said, and Hermione was then aware of why she was so anxious.

She was waiting for acceptance.

Hermione slowly exhaled but nodded, “I suppose I could.”

Rita gave her an answering nod, cautious but her next words weren’t as strained, “I appreciate that.”

She wondered if acceptance from Hermione was what Rita really wanted. In the past she might have chopped up Rita’s ‘kindnesses’ and charming words to a need to get closer to use her. She was a snake at heart, a beast that would strike when a being was most vulnerable and tear them to shreds on a wider scale. She had no desire to be the headline of Rita’s usual rags but to guess at her true intentions was just as difficult.

“Hermione,” Narcissa said, “Ms. Skeeter--Rita--and I were in Hogwarts together. Though we were not in the same year group she kept a keen eye upon me and I would say we are fairly close.”

“Have you always been?”

“The war was stressful,” Narcissa said, her tone distracted, lost in memories, “We didn’t keep much contact then.”

“She was probably busy,” Hermione licked her lips, “Defaming The Boy.”

Rita sucked in a breath, but said nothing.

“And I heard you were busy as well,” Narcissa whispered, “Blackmailing a bug.”

Rita groaned, her gaze narrowed, cheeks flushed with a healthy dose of embarrassment.

Hermione smiled, “It was a wild time.

There wasn’t much time for teasing after that, and as much as some part of her enjoyed watching Rita squirm there was work to be done and a raid to plan---her hours were limited but Narcissa still found time berating Rita over the state of her receiving quarters which Rita had turned into some sort of research room.

“But Cissa, darling,” Rita whined, “I had to. The Dark Lord, he’s tasked me with finding evidence in hopes of reviving the Most Ancient--”

“And you’ve smudged some of my families well-kept records, Rita--”

“--between you and me, I think the woman is lying. The House of Selywn was dangerously selective with their breeding--”

“--as Herald you really should hold yourself to higher standards of respect and well-accordance.”

“As His Herald,” Rita interrupted, “the most I need to do is weave magic over whatever He tells me to say!”

And on and on it went for some time like that, but she had a better understanding of Rita’s current place in the new world structure by the end of it at least. Still, she didn’t have time to answer in-depth questions about Rita’s position as His Herald, a term that… for the most part… Hermione thought might have been revived from times of old just to appease the Dark Lord himself.

But it was clear throughout the bickering that Rita and Narcissa had some sort of connection, something that went beyond Rita’s occupation and schooling and the unspoken rules of Narcissa’s royalty. Though Narcissa claimed that it had waned during the war, she doubted their familiarity had suffered much. It was enough to make Hermione smile, their casual bitter interactions.

“Is that what you call it? Weaving magic? The destruction of honor and reputation?” Hermione mumbled into a hoarded tea-cup, her gaze carefully leveled at her slippered toes.

Rita paused in speech, caught off guard no doubt by Hermione’s careful insertion among the flow of conversation. She filled the silence with a slight shrug and a floppy wave of her wrist, an action that had Narcissa quirking a brow.

“Use your words, Rita.”

The former report turned Herald shot the smirking blonde a narrow eyed look, but spoke nonetheless, “An inflation of the truth, an obvious inflation, in a gossip column is just that. Gossip, lyrical fiction drawn up by a singular fan.”

Hermione gave the woman a brief glance, noticed the fact that Rita seemed more interested casting her dazed gaze beyond the open doorway toward the hallway window there--as if the great sprawling gardens held the answers to a question she had no doubt been asked before.

“You sound rehearsed,” Hermione snorted.

“It is rehearsed,” Rita drawled, “You aren’t the first one to ask such a thing. The war brought out plenty of snark and strife and questions of a similar nature.”

“Yet, even during that time of slaughter you continued to push Ministry garbage?”

“Don’t misinterpret my past intentions,” Rita said, her voice devoid of the emotional whip Hermione had expected, instead filled with a solemn patience--heavy with knowledge that no one else could really understand, “I did not write for the joy of writing, in that term. Twisting mundane interviews into purple prose, holding the power over secrets and mercilessly cutting the clout of a witch or wizard? That’s an addictive heady potion, and if you had the need to pull and tug yourself from the filth built on the back of delusional wizards--”

“Is that what you thought of The Boy? That he was delusional? That he didn’t speak the truth--”

“The Boy,” Rita hissed, “was not the first to be oppressed by my column. He wasn’t even the last. My victims are wide and sprawling--”

“And do you feel anything for that? Any guilt?”

“No,” Rita said, hands upon her hips and brow quirked, “because they would have done the very same to me, if they had the power I hold.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her grip upon her tea-cup tight but steady. She parted her lips, her mind settled on an appropriately punishing remark--

“I don’t expect you to really understand,” Rita blurted. “But you can’t possibly be this naive.”

Hermione paused.

“Excuse me?” She sputtered.

Rita glanced at Narcissa, but the youthful matron was far too busy carefully spelling books back into their proper order and original condition.

“Are you trying,” Hermione found her voice, “to justify the emotional and psychological damage you wrought? On the tug and pull of views you controlled? On the support, you twisted and stole?”

Rita gave an odd sound, like an explosive huff, “Of course not.”

Suddenly, she flopped backwards, disrupting the precariously placed parchment work that had once occupied the table she’d been standing in front of. If Narcissa was bothered by the fact Rita had taken her expensive coffee table for a throne she didn’t say so. Only the slight twitch of her back muscles as she moved to the next shelf was any indication--

“I am a survivalist first and foremost and an opportunist second. I am not some self-proclaimed manifestation of editorial justice. I make the galleons I need to live beyond the squalor most of my kind--Slytherin or otherwise--would have been subjected to.”

Hermione opened her mouth for a moment, before she closed it. What did she mean? Most of her kind?

“I am not a Death Eater, though I am cruel in other ways. Power is addictive, after all, in any form and I had it even though others had far more. Still, at some point, even I was collared. If the Ministry tells you to apparate, you ask ‘where to?’”

That wasn’t something Hermione could outright deny.

“But if the common and thoughtless ask you… what should I do? How should I think?” Rita started, her voice softer, less firm and unyielding, “While the whip of your master licks across your back?”

The thick shadow that twisted through that one assured green was bothersome. It reminded Hermione that her juvenile bitterness and connotations of righteousness no longer applied to a world of grey. In the land of adulthood it had always been life and death, dog and owner, what’s supposedly _good_ verse what was _right._  

She hated the constant reminders that her childhood villains were human, with fears and aspirations.

“Fools are led by the foolish,” Rita said, “Those that matter see the underlying meaning of any of my words while those that don’t end up manipulated.”

With a tired chuckle Rita shrugged again, “I am a manipulated fool seducing the foolish, but I’m alive and well-off.”

Then with a soft whisper she finished, “A half-blood couldn’t have asked for more.”

 

 


	13. raiding touch

Hermione departed after that, unwilling to dwell on the  _rawness_ she'd left behind in that receiving room. Her hasty excuse of needing to attend to her general duties before assembling her team had been readily accepted by Narcissa and Rita had only given her a subdued wave as she'd scurried toward the door.

Later, when the pressure of success and saving a people she no longer knew if she believed in had lessened, she could think about Rita's words and the value of Muggle-bred integrity.

Despite the nature of the manor she found her quarters easily enough and taking the steps two at a time it wasn't long before she was shuffling down the guest hallway, lured by the odd beat of Luna's magic against her skin.

"Hermione," Luna's voice floated over, unencumbered due to the open door. "Your magic is buzzing."

Hermione shook her head, not bothering to answer as she slipped past the threshold and kicked off her shoes. Immediately thereafter, she moved to the bed, ignoring Luna's position at the elegant writing desk-and the heated tug at her magic core from the egg in its enclosure- with her various quills and floating ink-pots. She knew her companion turned seneschal often worked on her accounts-and other important pure-blood aspects of budding house ownership-whenever Hermione separated from her. There was little need to ask about the management and progress, Luna would more or less tell her whatever needed to be told without prompting.

"Gringotts," Luna said, and Hermione could feel her gaze upon her backside as she knelt on her knees and began to rummage beneath the bed, "We should pencil in some time."

"Whatever for?" Hermione grunted, knowing that the goblins were no fan of hers. It was only the fact that she'd been punished directly after the war that kept them begrudgingly handling her accounts—while taking a few knuts off the side for something penned in as 'dragon compensation'. "What do the goblins want?"

"Your galleons," Luna chirped, pleased by the question.

"They have those already."

"More of them, they'd like more of them."

"Always," Hermione grumbled as she slipped a hand underneath the bed with belly flat on the ground as she clawed for the object she knew had to be under there.

"They also need to speak with you. House things."

Hermione spared a glance over her shoulder just as her fingertips collided with something solid, "House things?"

"Registering. Rings. You know."

"I don't know," Hermione drawled.

"You will know." Luna answered, though she didn't supply anything else.

"Luna…" Hermione said, distracted as she began to pull the object from under the bed and sit up from her undignified squirming.

"Later," Luna answered happily, "I want the pixies to feed tonight. Distractions would be counter-productive."

Instead of feeding into the weirdness of the statement Hermione took stock of her retrieved treasure. There, on bended knees, she could feel the heavy weight of the  _box_  upon her lap. For a brief moment, she only stared, drawn into twisted memories by the representation of what was held within.  _Screaming, so much screaming. Pain. So much pain._  Yet the phantom churning in her gut, associated feelings she'd come to expect, never came. Instead, her heartbeat quickened as she stroked along the runes she'd crudely carved into the silver surface to keep it locked.

Concerning. That was concerning.

A question danced on the tip of her tongue, held back only by fear of the answer.

"Have you ever been on a raid, Luna?"

She held her breath while Luna made a curious sound behind her.

"I don't think so."

Her dreamy reply wasn't very satisfying.

"You don't think so?" Hermione said, incredulous.

"All the Death Eaters have, at some point."

Hermione bit her bottom lip, "Aren't you…?"

"I am a prize. The only daughter of a pure-blood house fallen from grace," Luna said, and while her words were damaging her tone was casual. Nearly positive.

"So, you suspect that others then-"

"Draco, definitely."

Of course, that wasn't surprising.

"I need to speak to him."

"Of course," Luna said.

"This has to be successful." Hermione whispered, box in hand as she stood.

"Of course," Luna repeated.

"If he has experience, if he can help me save them-anyone-then he'll have the best knowledge on who to take."

This time, Luna did not respond, but Hermione could feel a shift in the room and knew that her companion had left her seat to approach her tense and hunched back.

"How can you be so calm?" Hermione asked, and while she wasn't a bundle of nerves-not anymore-she still felt a mild sense of trepidation in the pit of her belly. They were meant to kill tonight, meant to rend meat from bone in the name of their Lord. They would swarm the den of their enemies and remember that they'd once been allies.

"I'm not worried," Luna lightly touched the arm that hosted Hermione's mark, an arm currently covered by the jumper she wore, "You will save as many as you can and do what must be done to anyone else."

Hermione swallowed thickly, "I wonder, in the face of this challenge, if I'll be able to."

There were a lot of unknown factors. How many still dwelled within the Tonks residence? How much hope would she shatter for the Light upon her rampage? How many lives could be exchanged just so she could feel  _alive_. It was all so incredibly selfish, to damn their future for a moment in the present.

"The future The Boy would have brought never came," Luna theorized, "the future that may have been foggy and stagnant. You will protect the one we will build now."

"And what is this one? If that one would have brought no change and this one brings too much change-"

"Mmm… it feels like power and effort. Like security and reform."

"Like death and pain." Hermione muttered.

"There will always be pain," Luna answered simply, "but death is a gift by the masters."

Bestowed upon the lowly people by their elevated god.

They stood in silence. Luna behind her, with her arm in her grip and Hermione with the solace she found in her silver box of hoarded treasures. There was no point in further discussion. She had made her decision the moment she step foot back into Malfoy Manor and subjugated Umbridge before a hungry crowd of the elite and proper. She had already engaged on a journey of self-discovery, and though she felt brittle someone would always be around to fill in her cracks. She had to push forward for the now. For the  _family_  she'd yet cemented and the world she didn't quite want to burn.

And the magic, oh Godrick, the magic.

Hermione turned to hand the box to Luna, "Make sure Bellatrix receives this. I'm going to find Draco."

Luna took the box from her grip, treating it gingerly, "Of course."

"You'll come with me tonight, won't you?"

Luna smiled, her dreamy gaze filled with warm adoration-

"Of course."

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Salt and Circle was an interesting locale. At first glance it was just another pub, some shady location tucked away in the corner of Knockturn Alley near the various brothels and one of the stained-but dormant-execution squares. For the most part it was a relatively deserted space, suspiciously sparse in decoration or volume. Once upon a time, she might have envisioned their commandeered corner flush with witches and wizards of a more dubious nature, but now only a hag or two skittered by with nervous energy. Perhaps, during those first few years of strife and rebellion, they had used the space to slaughter and maim among their peers. Already she could feel the odd stirring of resting magic-once raised through the despair and pain of the unfortunate-but it was so thin that she could barely focus on it beyond the stench of piss and firewhisky.

"Don't look so sour," Draco murmured, his voice a tickle in her ear and entirely unwelcome as they stalked toward the unassuming building, "This place is much more active during the day."

Hermione huffed, "I'm more concerned about the sanitation, than I am the popularity."

"It's plenty sanitary, on the inside." Draco hastily said, "And the shops are clean and legal."

"As opposed to dirty and  _illegal_." Hermione quirked a brow.

"Cheeky," Draco scoffed. "Keep up that undignified attitude and you'll find yourself hard-pressed for allies."

Hermione twisted her face into a grimace of discomfort, "I only need a handful of junior Death Eaters. I have you, after all."

Draco gave her a scathing look, some cross between exasperated and amused, "Thanks for volunteering me."

"Naturally, Heir Malfoy. I appreciate the assistance."

The usage of his title seemed to be enough to appease him and all too soon he was grinning from ear to ear. "You're learning, Lady Granger."

In her defense, she didn't much have a choice, but wizarding etiquette was the least of her worries.

"Our Lord has revived a great deal of our ritualistic and traditional sanctions. This is a space for those who wish for His esteem and understand the need for culture. It isn't the only place I frequent, but I find it's the most enjoyable." Draco said, his gaze upon the black smudged wood of the door they now stood before. "Wizards and witches of our age come here to drink, but also to comb for those with power. They want to appeal to those who may get them closer to his circle of elite. This is a court, filled with the licentious. Within this pit, there is only one king, only one queen."

Draco turned to her, his hands suddenly upon her shoulders and his gaze unwavering, "Please understand, Hermione. This is often a hellstorm of politics and bottom feeders nipping at our heels for any type of scraps they can find. They would build their legacy on our backs, if they thought they could manage it. For you, it is especially treacherous."

Hermione nodded with solemn agreement, fingers twitching for the weight of her wand.

"But, there is certain information they aren't privy, if they lack the means to grasp it. I will help, in any way I can, as one of your pure-blood sponsors." He searched her face for a reaction, "You do remember what Mother taught you, yes?"

"Of course," She said. Her understanding of sponsorship, while rudimentary, was still strong enough to hold up to those who would question her pure-blood validity. She knew that, without a doubt, the Malfoys were her sponsors, her family of higher status set to educate her on properness and provide the necessary political backing to crack the wall of gentryhood secrecy.

"Good," Draco's shoulders relaxed, "Then I will guide you as much as I can in this manner, as is appropriate. But, this is your raid and it is your job to seek those who may bring you glory. It can be difficult to find… trustworthy comrades and in return they will expect elevation-"

"Elevation?" Hermione blinked, her spine stiff, "As in, house elevation?"

"Nothing so serious, not yet. Though, it is not unheard of to vassal a comrade or two to your household after sufficient proof of proficiency."

Hermione bobbed her head, knowing that Goyle belonged to Draco in this manner.

"But you will only have one Companion, for a time, as dictated by the strength of your house. A vassal is different, more autonomous but supportive, protective. It can still be a tough decision…"

Draco's voice tapered off, probably because he realized he was giving her a crash-course in culture outside of a shady pub.

"Just… talk to me if things get weird."

Hermione gave him a wry smile, "Naturally, Heir Malfoy."

He twisted his lips in a Slytherin worthy scowl but shook his head soon after, "Mum would kill me if anything happened to you, politically or otherwise. I don't even want to think about what my aunt would do."

Hermione had a few ideas based on a couple of choice spells she'd been learning but decided to leave some surprise to the mystery of her… professor.

"I'm counting on you. I have plans," Hermione said. Plans that depended on the successful extraction of a couple of Weasley's and one Andromeda Tonks if they were present.

"I don't do anything for free," Draco replied, surprisingly playful.

"I don't suspect any Slytherin has," Hermione said. Still, she took Draco's offered arm and allowed him to open the door with a series of complex off rhythm knocks, right as she whispered, "But, you may want to consider it, Heir Malfoy, the power I may wield and who it will be pointed at."

The upturn of his lips, in broad smile, and the glimmer that shifted through his eyes was all the evidence she needed to know what he would do.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The outside did not match the inside. There was nothing about the downtrodden building that would have prepared her for the floating lanterns, intimate tables, and cushioned seating arranged in a manner that reminded her rather painfully of Hogwarts and its common rooms. As if Draco had built the place himself he strutted forward, her position on his arm gaining him a great bit of attention from some of the idling patrons.

"Goyle," Draco called and immediately to their left the larger male stood from his place at an empty table, his chair pushed back with a sudden scraping that seemed clumsy and graceless. Still, he carefully tucked it in with all the care of someone who knew they had too much power in just their fists.

"Hello Draco," Gregory answered, his voice a soft hum before he turned black eyes to Hermione. "Lady Granger."

It was odd to see him address her with any semblance of respect. It was odder still when he moved to her unprotected side and seemed to puff up, brutish but protective.

"Thank you, Goyle." Draco answered cordially, and Hermione said nothing, knowing this posturing was perhaps necessary when faced with unknown elements. "Let's have a drink. The usual table?"

Greg nodded fiercely, and as a unit they moved through a surprisingly thick crowd of cloaked individuals. Once or twice someone seemed to stare directly at her, unbelieving or scowling but their trip toward one of the various alcoves in the space went unbothered.

"Wow," Hermione mumbled, hoping her voice was covered by the soft trill of music being played nearby.

"Welcome to my corner, Lady Granger." Draco stopped them before the space and, using a combination of well-practiced motions and the position of her captured arm he twirled her body away from his own until she was placed before one of the high backed cushioned chairs.

There weren't a lot of those, she'd noticed. In fact, Draco's captured space looked extremely well… furnished, in comparison to some of the other areas. There was a green circular carpet at her feet with a splash of silver at the center-silver coaxed into the shape of something decidedly peacock with two embroiled wands set to cross at the center of its chest- a small tea table set off to the side, and a couch opposite the two fluffy arm chairs, one of which she didn't hesitate to occupy. Between the space was a simplistic fat and squat cauldron which must have been spelled to keep the butterbeer and various other liquor bottles, perfectly chilled.

"Within this pub, you can sort of unofficially claim the alcoves. You furnish them however you like," Draco began pleasantly, his speech only interrupted as he reached behind the cauldron to retrieve three glasses from the holder attached at the back, "The influential take their desired spaces," He paused briefly to quirk a brow in her direction, "The more you boast to have, the bigger the area you tend to claim. Yet, I'm not a fan of excess. This is an intimate and appropriate size for a proper court."

He handed her a glass, which she took with wide and curious eyes, "And the others?"

"The others?" Draco asked, before he spared a glance over his shoulder to some of the nervously shifting patrons-either standing or seated at normal looking tables, "Ah, well, they aren't the king are they?"

The comment, initially, went right over her head. It was only when Greg smiled broadly, that something clicked into place.

"So, you weren't being metaphorical earlier? About the king and queen bit?"

"Oh. No. Of course not." He scowled.

She lifted her glass in quiet surrender and in hope that she could get some of that firewhisky Draco seemed intent on pouring, "They all bow before you, then?"

"Some of them. The others don't matter much, to me. Our peers are the ones He's scouting for, so we must contain and control them. I make my alliances here. My rivals. I build my future. When I am Lord, my family will count on me… It's better to learn how to rule now, rather than later, don't you think?"

"And would you share your court?"

Draco was quiet for a moment, his expression carefully controlled as he lifted the bottle toward her glass and began to pour. Only once he was done did he hand the bottle to Greg-who poured his own-and answer her question.

"For His Chosen and the glory of our estate? Yes. Yes, I would. So long as you don't misuse them."

He sat in the chair beside her, one leg crossed over the other in courteous fashion as Greg sat heavily across from them-with a soft omph and smile.

"I have few knights. I don't desire some sprawling kingdom. You'll need to find your own, eventually-and no, Granger, Luna doesn't count. She isn't your knight, she's your trusted advisor, your confidant, your family, your-."

Whatever else he'd intended to say was swallowed by a cheerful cry of-"Draco!"

It should have been inhumanely possible, and maybe also a crime, for someone to look as regally handsome as Blaise Zabini did. Furthermore, the rolling curl of his voice and the smooth operation of his swagger was all the more pronounced among the rabble and envious. He parted the idle crowds with barely any effort. In fact, they seemed to hastily move out of his way, giving Hermione the impression that one did not block the path of Draco's select. Not here anyway.

Draco stood from his seat in a flourish of robes, but his expression was settled-a sort of lopsided smile of gentle awareness that Hermione had never seen on his face before. He was quick to embrace the other man, giving him a hug so fierce Hermione was surprised that neither of them seemed uncomfortable with the open display of affection. In fact, Zabini was quick to return it, practically crushing the smaller man with the strength of his embrace.

For a moment, no matter how brief, they were both preoccupied and Hermione spared a glance to Greg who had also risen upon Blaise approach, who now held another glass within his once unoccupied fist-one Hermione presumed would soon be taken by the newest arrival. There was a brightening of his gaze, a sort of sparkling familiarity that she hadn't seen upon another person's face in… in years. One that she might not have even recognized if not for the joyous bark of Zabini's name Greg released soon after.

So, it was no surprise that Hermione felt slightly… alien there, a figure dabbling in voyeurism. This felt like a private moment, some bond of friendship reignited by men of strife after an unknown tenure apart. There's something special in the way Draco curled his fist against Zabini's back, gathering the material in a bunch. Something… secretive in the odd glimmer of Zabini's eyes that match so well with his wide and genuine smile. Even here, in a near literal pit of what must have been the desperate and greedy, their emotions were so brilliant. She wouldn't have thought them capable… no, she wouldn't have thought any Slytherin capable of such vibrancy.

Yet, that was but another misconception of her Gryffindor upbringing.

For weren't Slytherin's selfish, inconsiderate, and unfeeling? Weren't the idle touches Narcissa gave her, and the strange possessive clutch of Bellatrix just affirmations over their desire to control her? Only Luna touched her with any sort of genuine want for affection, right? Had she always done that? Or was she just as touch starved as Hermione herself?

She swallowed and pushed the thought aside. She needed to focus, Zabini and Draco had parted some time ago, with Zabini delivering a particularly hard smack to Draco's back. After greeting Greg with a firm but friendly hand clasp he finally turned all his attention upon her.

"So, the letters were true? He picked you?"

Hermione might have found offense at the words if the brown of Zabini's gaze hadn't been so dilated and his smile so fervent.

"Very true," Draco said, hands upon his hips.

"Makes sense," Zabini replied, a cocoa colored hand now set to rub lightly at the stubble that covered his still youthful face, "she was bloody brilliant, right?"

"Are you asking me that like you weren't there? Right next to me? In school?"

Zabini gave Draco a withering look, "I didn't go out of my way to bump into their group. Constantly. For the thrill of it."

Hermione held back a bark of laughter at the look of indignation that soured Draco's expression. The way his eyes bulged and his neck muscles twitched as red swept over his cheeks was a clear indication to his anger. Or embarrassment. Or both.

"You spend some time in the jungles of Nosara and come back cheeky?"

"I was being truthful, not cheeky. I came back with a soothed demeanor, I think you're mistaking it for something else."

Hermione shook her head then as Draco raised a hand in a weak sort of dismissive wave. It was clear he didn't find much humor in the statement or the one that had come before it.

"So, it's public then? His proclamation?" Hermione's interjection was enough to gain the attention of all three men and for a moment an uncomfortable sort of silence settled around them, but soon enough Greg-surprisingly-answered the question.

"Only those with the Mark were aware… a-are aware." Greg said, though his tone was unsure, "We knew about it ahead of time. The Lord's research. But we didn't know who it would be until afterwards."

"Those who were at the revel would know, of course." Draco added, "And those who were closest to them."

"I found out from the post," Zabini groused, "but not from anything public. The official proclamation will be done a bit later. Closer to winter solstice, I think. Do you have it?"

"The schedule?" Draco asked, "I do."

"And?" Zabini hissed.

"You can read over all of that later," Draco snorted.

"Fine." Zabini spat, but Hermione could tell it was all in good fun. There wasn't any real aggression in the haughty way he held his body or the way his grin turned sly. "Then what are we here for, exactly, if not to discuss that?"

Draco inclined his head toward the open space beside Greg and Zabini took it with little flourish. "Other things that you may be unaware of, that are a tad more important at this time."

Hermione took a moment to look between the pair, while silence fell over them like a comforting blanket. Only the idle march of the people beyond their circle reminded her that they were not alone and invisible, that if they wished for her to break the quiet they would need more than just ambiance to cover the things she'd say. "Ward us."

Immediately Draco moved, his empty free hand now occupied with the comforting weight of his wand. One soft mumble later and Hermione could feel the chilling pull and drop of magic,  _Draco's_  magic, sweep over them and envelope the immediate space. It was only then that Hermione hunched over, hands grasped tightly between one another, her glass forgotten on the nearby table.

"Maybe we should talk about that schedule first," She mumbled, her stomach a cluster of nerves, her gaze somewhat narrowed, "I'm rather curious about whatever that's about."

Draco gave off a snort, far from proper, and shook his head, "No. Later."

As if the management of her life wasn't immediately important. Yet, she wasn't sure how much she could… or should say-

"Blaise is my companion, Hermione." As if sensing her discomfort Draco was quick to explain, "You asked for my opinion, to borrow some insight? You're looking at the best, in terms of advise."

To that Zabini quirked a brow, his posture straightened and his expression took on a far more serious note. Even Draco looked somewhat solemn, but ready to talk of more dangerous tasks, things beyond pure-blood pedigree and fancy revels.

She sighed, but she spoke, "The Dark Lord has given me a task, a raid to be clear. I need a party and since I am not in the habit of doing such things I've asked Draco to assist with its creation."

Zabini gave off a sharp whistle with quirked brow, "A raid?"

"To prove herself," Draco shifted his gaze from Zabini to Greg before it landed back upon her, "We found stragglers. Some of the Inner Circle think Granger's the cause-"

Her voice was sharp and vicious, a snarl of- "I. Am. Not."

"And I believe you," Draco said, nostrils flared, "But The Dark Lord is thorough in all that He does. This isn't  **just**  some task to display your loyalty. It'll be…"

His voice trailed off as he swallowed harshly, and though his mouth was parted and his tongue moved no words came. He seemed, for a fleeting moment, trapped in memory with rapidly moving gaze and bobbing adam's apple. It wasn't until Zabini, whose stern expression never changed, reached across the table to place a hand upon his twitching knee, that Draco seemed to return to himself.

"It must be done." He croaked, as if afraid to revisit his unfinished line of thought and no matter how badly Hermione yearned to hear the statement, she didn't dare interrupt as he continued to speak. "And you will do it. The others are irrelevant. You will do this for Him."

"Don't scare the poor girl," Zabini whispered, his hand still almost possessively upon Draco's knee, an act that hadn't escaped her, "Just tell me about the operation."

She wondered at the ease in which Zabini addressed Draco. She wondered how he managed to make the blonde boy relax, almost against his will, into the rich leathers of his taken chair. She wondered at how Greg, who must have thought he wouldn't be noticed, reached across to place his hand idly upon Zabini's shoulder…

She wondered at their ability and comfort and  _touch_.

But instead of voicing her thoughts, of giving into the idle twist of envy that curled in her belly and the ask that died on the tip of her tongue she spoke of other, less savory but far more important things, "How long has it been since you've set foot in London?"

Zabini made an odd sound, like the click of a tongue against the back of teeth, "Around three or so hours, most of it spent sleeping off the exhaustion of the journey."

"Are you still exhausted, then? From your… journey?"

"No," Zabini's tone was firm, his gaze resolute.

"My ascension from peasant to Lady was not the only thing you missed." If Hermione's sudden change of subject and the odd wisp of her tone bothered her company, they made no outward indication, "The Order is active, leaderless or otherwise, we can't be sure."

Zabini blinked once, twice, "Impossible."

"It's possible," Greg said, head bobbing, "We saw him. He said so, with his own mouth. No  _Imperius_  or anything."

"Saw who?" Zabini said.

"Did you check anything in what I sent you?" Draco whispered harshly, even though the ward kept their voices well and truly smothered beyond their immediate circle, "What do I bother sending you anything for, if you don't even want to read it?"

"Settle down," Zabini hissed.

"Weasley," Hermione interrupted, her gaze upon the grip that Zabini still held on Draco's knee, on the way his fingers curled slightly inward, applying pressure as Draco's pupils seemed to dilate in warning.

"Weasley?" Zabini repeated, "Ronald Weasley?"

The name made Hermione jerk, as if she'd been slapped by memories far too powerful and pungent, repulsive, treasonous. Anger swaddled upward, looking and eager to devour guilt-but there was none to be found, only… an odd sense of displacement at hearing that name. The Red One.

She lowered her head into the safety of her open palms and shook it, "No… no," she mumbled, "William. William Weasley."

For a moment, the circle was quiet, Zabini thoughtful with tilted head, Greg with a distant and distracted gaze, and Draco who shifted in his seat enough that Zabini's hand fell off his person.

"Alright," Zabini leaned back. "William Weasley, then."

"He attacked," Here Hermione paused, "No, he begged the Minister for help. He managed to get into the Ministry. That's what caused the initial red flag. He was brought before Him. He needed help. The Order…"

She wasn't sure if she needed to say more, wasn't sure if she could fathom her former allies doing something as low-brow as child snatching and yet-

"He gave them up then?"

"For a price," Hermione said, flicking her gaze from Zabini back to Draco, "William said his child was taken. He wants them back. He paid with his secrets, I presume, and the location of their last hideout."

Zabini hummed softly, curious no doubt, "He believes they may still be there?"

"I'm not sure how fast they could have moved or how long it took for William to make his initial contact. We can't even be sure of the circumstances surrounding his child's disappearance."

"So, we could end up walking into an abandoned former hide-out, if they are aware of William's dissertation and subsequent surrender, leaving our efforts fruitless and our raid a failure."

"Or a trap," Greg added.

Zabini nodded, "Yes, or a trap."

"Where is your sense of adventure?" Draco snorted.

"Do I look like a Gryffindor to you?" Zabini snapped, but all too soon his focus was back to Hermione, perhaps because of Draco's comment, "And what of you? Is it your sense of adventure pushing you forward?"

Hermione rather thought it was her lack of a choice pushing her forward, and she smiled somewhat wryly at the idea that it might have been her… courage or sense of adventure shoving her into immediate peril. "Things have changed a bit for me."

Slowly, Hermione leaned back, fingertips hooked with one another, her gaze somewhat shiny-lost in the swirl of idle thoughts, twisting and strange, "That place… that place where I sat, and wept, and dreamed, and slept. You know of it? Is it… was it Azkaban? Not that it truly matters. Yet, that place… well, it left me a bit odd, a bit drained. I'm sure you can understand? It's not really a want for adventure that drives me. I'm all adventured out."

She licked her lips, "And I don't want to waste our time on a fruitless venture either."

But she  _did_  want to feel  _alive_.

She shifted a bit, aware of the idle quickened thump of her heart as the idea of… of something… of wild abandon beside Bellatrix sped her pulse. "But He has commanded and so I shall push forward, and I intend to bring Him something, wizard flesh or otherwise."

Zabini laughed somewhat, nostrils flared at her reveal, "Then we must succeed."

Draco shared with her a strange expression, one of curious interest and she returned it, not entirely aware of the shadows that danced along her gaze or the hunger that dwelled there.

He broke it with a shudder, leaving her feeling slightly confused, amused, and oddly satisfied.

"Small team then," Draco muttered, "Zabini, Goyle, myself-"

"Lovegood," Hermione interjected.

Draco nodded, not the least bit surprised, "And you. That's five. Plus my aunt, making that a total team of six."

Draco only paused in thought to look back at her and to extend his hand, palm up- "I am giving you the usage of my circle and myself, my knights and I, their lord. We swear to assist you and your own. In return, when called, you shall answer this lord and heed his request."

Her skin prickled with the chill of Draco's magic and as she lifted her hand to accept she could feel it slide across her flesh, testing, teasing, and eliminating any sense of warmth that might have radiated from Draco's own palm. Her own magic rose, sweeping away the idle scent of pine needles and the sense of metal and scales. It came unbidden, called by phrases-not known to her mentally, and yet still so familiar, as if it had been bred in her awakened blood.

So, she whispered, "If you are a lord and king, what does that make me?"

Draco whispered back, his grip tight, his smile wild, "A noble, waiting to become a true lady and perhaps, eventually, a queen."

She licked her lips then, unaware of the curious canter to her tone, "What if I too, wanted to be a lord? A lord that could change into a god?"

Draco's gaze widened only a fraction as their power continued a dance of will and test. He opened his mouth to speak but Hermione, with a flash of teeth in maddened smile, interrupted-

"I accept."

And the magic sung as it snapped tightly around them.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The rest of the evening thereafter was filled with Zabini's gentle laughter, Greg's wide and eager smile, and a confused but content Draco's flickering gaze between them. She found herself at ease among them, these grown-up snakes, as she expressed particular tactics and a need for caution that they absorbed and reflected with all the experience of practiced politicians. Even Greg was somewhat surprising in his proficiency, something she hadn't noticed during their tenure as schoolyard enemies. He was not as empty headed as she'd assumed.

Good.

There was only one hiccup during their idle talk of strategy, when Zabini had lifted a hand to brush across the back of her hand as they'd huddled over various maps quickly procured by a Ministry House-Elf assigned to aid the Malfoy family with serious inquiries. His hand had been jerked back and taken from her flesh with a fierceness she hadn't yet witnessed in Draco, whose face was twisted up in mild alarm instead of the fear or anger she might have expected.

Not that she'd thought Draco possessive of her person, she was claimed and powerfully so by a very frightening being. If anything, she might have thought his redirection of Zabini as one meant to save his skin if he'd become a tad too friendly and Bellatrix heard of it.

Instead, what slipped past his lips in a whisper was- "She isn't aware. She doesn't know-"

To which Zabini hissed out, in startled anger, "You nearly gave me a heart attack, you idiot bloke-"

Which soon devolved into a match of fiercely uttered phrases that left Hermione's ears ringing and red.

"Stop." She said, red quill held against her lips as she chewed on the tip, a bad habit but difficult to break. She needed to fidget when she thought theories and stratagem, least her mind wander and escape from her careful grasp, pulled by darker whispers and a desire for wildness. "What's all this?"

They both sat there, Draco with both of Zabini's wrists captured between his own, but they weren't very forthcoming with information.

So Greg spoke for them, "In… Slytherin, we…  _touch._ "

He paused to cast a look at the two men, who stared at him as if he'd given away some grand secret. His only response was a snort and to relax his shoulders, apparently seeing nothing too impressive from his friends that would stop him.

"We don't get a lot of it. Touch. Never got much at home, myself. And, you know, in Hogwarts… when we are sorted there's a certain level of… uh…"

"Coldness? Insensitivity? Unfeelingness?"

Greg held up a hand to stop Hermione's amused tirade, "Ah, something like that. Our futures are usually planned for us and all that. We are trained in properness, you know, don't slurp at the table sort of stuff. It's a difficult environment to uh make friends in."

Draco frowned and released Zabini's wrists. "It's more than just that."

"I get the gist," Hermione said with a motion for Greg to continue.

"It's just that, we're starved. Heck, I was starved, you know? For… touch? We hold each other. Hands or what not. H-h-hugs." Greg swallowed nervously, "This doesn't mean anything, Granger. I'm still strong you know. I can help on the raid."

The sudden sense of insecurity from the massive lunker who used to shoulder his way through Hogwarts halls was startling and yet welcomed. More humanity. More… something, something other than her initial perceptions.

"I know," Hermione replied, "So you and…."

Zabini cleared his throat, "It's a habit. I'm used to… touching. It's affection that means everything to us and the bond, it's sometimes all we have in Slytherin, but… not like-"

Draco cleared his throat, as if prepared to finish the statement, but seemed at a loss for words. Again, Greg picked up the slack-

"It's scary, you know? When you don't have any control and the outside just doesn't  _understand_. Sometimes, curling up next to your best mate can be grounding. Knowing you aren't alone. It means nothing. It means everything."

It was platonic. It wasn't.

Hermione understood. She understood lonely nights where she'd wanted more friends, closer friends, to hold her while she read. She understood wanting to touch The Boy when only fear had been within her heart and grief on her mind, to maybe hold the Red One's hand without it meaning… kissing and futures she didn't want to plan.

She reached out and touched Draco then, found his magic humming beneath his skin… she gripped his wrist and leaned back. "It'll take some getting used to. Touchy Slytherins, who would have thought of such a thing?"

There was a collective release of breath as Draco went back to explaining what he believed would be the best point of attack on the Tonks' household while Hermione ignored the way Greg animatedly agreed while holding onto the edge of her robes with his large hand and Zabini adjusted Draco's ideals with just his fingertips spread over a knee.

Touchy Slytherins indeed.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

She could see her breath frosted on the wind. The temperature was chilly, the crisp bite of a fleeting autumn, and for a brief moment she wished she'd worn more clothing beyond the dark tight robes and leathers beneath them—standard for active ventures, Zabini had said. It was meant to be a simple ensemble for a simple procedure, short black robe of dragon scale and leather-more a jacket than anything else-with a vest that felt odd and unyielding, perhaps magic resistant to a fault. Or, force resistant. Or none of these, maybe just flexible. She should have investigated in the wardrobe a bit more, but nerves had had Luna's careful explanations of pants and shoes and robes go into one ear and out the other. All that she could focus on was the rapid beat of her heart and the various scenarios that flittered through her mentality, like bad-end movies.

She released another shaky breath, watched it puff from her person in a small cloud and then refocused her vision upon the space she'd soon claim as her own personal haven for destruction.

There was something nasty about waiting out there, crouched as she was with the damp musk of dew on grass clinging to her covered knees. Here, in the tall unkempt greens that made up a neglected landscape, in the early hours of morning, she could see more than just the odd and slouched home before her behind it's shimmer of once protective magic.

Now that Bill had revealed it, of course, the shimmer was merely for show. There was no healthy thump of a well-exercised ward or the security once provided by the  _Fidelius Charm_. There was only a heavy sense of struggle, displayed easily in the way the gutter hung slightly off the building and how the windows-closed and no doubt sealed-flickered dancing shadows through closed and tattered curtains with barely functioning light. This home, much like the figures that surely still dwelled within, was barely functional. Hopeless. Vulnerable.

She licked her lips and shook herself before she tossed an idle glance beyond her shoulder. Magic hummed around her, tiny pin-pricks that licked at her senses-distracting. She pushed the buzz of her collective to the back of her mind and wondered, beyond herself, who else might have felt them out there sitting like wolves and starving for blood? It was only the thick wall of dying magic before her that kept her from properly sensing the layout of those within the home, but the flickering brilliance within told another story.

_Someone_ , was in there.

She pondered on who but it was only a brief assessment, if this was a trap she considered the bulk of The Order's remains would dwell within. If it wasn't…

A voice then, soft and dreamy-

Immediately she drew her gaze down to the wriggling patronus against her thigh, the  _hare_  that belonged to her currently hidden companion.

' _Go.'_

And then it was gone.

She went, lowering herself onto the ground, as planned, to drag her body forward-closer to the home in question. Due to the horrid nature of the land around the house, and the spacious hills that separated the Tonks' property from various other muggle residences, she found herself a tad lucky with the amount of cover her darkly dressed body held. There would be no hiding her identity, not from the wizards or witches within anyway, and no masks beyond ceremonial purposes in His new order. So, she could only hope that she wasn't spotted before she managed to come upon the initial buzz of their first ward.

Would they have shot her first? Or welcomed her with a teary-eyed embrace?

It didn't matter.

With a long exhale, she slipped her fingertips along the damp earth, only to pause before a crawling wavering heat. They had one… no, two wards in question. One behind the other, to make up for the lack a single proper and strong ward alone. They both felt weary and rushed, tinged with something  _other_  that might have kept curious neighbors and exploring Muggle children away.

But it would not keep them away.

She felt more than saw a shift of movement behind her. She was no trained ward breaker, despite her elevated studies. That was what they were for, but her silent signal-her stop among the grasses-was enough to alert them to the presence of something beyond her current position and, in the span of a few hurried breaths,  _nerves_  Hermione figured, the buzzing itching warmth of magic twisted… and fell.

In the same moment one light turned on within the house.

_Go, go, go, go!_  Her mind screamed, and with little preamble she was up on her feet and closing the scant distance that separated her from the house itself. Beyond her vision heat crawled over her senses, the summoning of an anti-apparition field, and she knew that there would be no turning back now. Not when there were muffled curious tones, tired but concerned, coming beyond the walls and the once still curtains were beginning to twitch from curious fingers.

She was out of time for further introspection.

She shuffled along the side of the house, her group close behind her, moving swiftly no longer as concerned about being seen and yet she still… she still…

" _Alohomora_ ," Luna whispered, her sudden presence upon the porch of the home like a glaring red alarm in the backdrop of Hermione's mind. The fact that her dreamy companion had just, almost literally, waltzed out into the open with little to no care at all was a concern they'd immediately discuss after the bulk of this was over-if any of them survived it.

As it was, it moved Hermione's timetable up quite a bit and she was quick to twist around the corner of the house to stand at the ready with wand in hand.

Yet, as the door opened it revealed only darkness and the flickering lights of a foyer past redemption. Tables had been overturned, couches torn apart to create makeshift bedding, and once cheerful pastel wallpaper was now stained in odd colors and peeling rapidly off water warped walls. Her mind only had time to process the state of the space before the sound of a breaking window near the back of the home jarred her senses and she stepped into action, whispering rapidly under her breath the well-versed detection spell she'd spoken into her lonely flat on multiple, paranoid, occasions.

The tip of her wand lit up red, a glaring issue, reactive to the magic that slumbered within the house and the various bodies shuffling about now. She could hear feet coming, no doubt to check on the distraction on the back of the house and the-

A scream.

At the same time, Luna and Hermione both stepped over the threshold. Hermione crouched, tense and ready for action while Luna, serene and standing tall, hopped right over into the room, right before the entire home seemed to change before them. It stretched-enhanced no doubt by whatever magic had infused the space-and twisted, becoming larger. Suddenly the living area was more than just a destroyed receiving space. It had become a  _torn apart_ cavern. The carpeting had been ripped up, the wood beneath peeled back to reveal red splashed dirt in intricate symbols. The wallpaper was cracked and carved into, stained black in some sections with the blowback of what Hermione could only assume had been powerful spellwork.

It looked… it looked…

"What a quaint ritual chamber," Luna said, forgoing any sense of urgency or the need to whisper.

Hermione hissed, "Luna!"

"The naga is too exhausted to hear," Luna replied, though her canter was off, like a breathy sigh. "and the hatchlings are weak and poisoned. This way."

Luna stepped forward, wand held casually in her grip, her gaze sharp and her expression almost bored. It was a major difference from her earlier, almost lackluster behavior, and yet still didn't carry the amount of seriousness that Hermione felt was appropriate for a breaking and entering scenario. Still, she did follow, only jerking to the side when the hiss of the floorboards closest to the symbols in the earth seemed to bubble and spit.

"Mind your step," Luna drawled.

Hermione replied with anxious silence.

The room, with its ominous air and near suffocating smell of  _otherness_ , was empty save for the ruined furniture and flickering light overhead. Whatever must have been there, whatever love or companionship that had occupied the space, was long gone. Only the echo of rapidly moving bodies and shouts seemed left behind-though such noise filtered in from the lone hallway before them, a hallway that was soon filled with one frazzled wizard…

Who only had the chance to look up with a gasp before a blast of green slammed into his person and he fell, no longer a part of their world.

The smoking tip of Luna's wand was a harsh contrast against the slight wry smile that crossed her lips. "He came from the stairs."

Hermione swallowed harshly and with a cautious peek around the corner she saw the spiraling staircase and heard various crashes beyond them. She pushed the sight of Luna's cursework from her mind, especially when the other woman walked past her with only an idle motion for her to continue onward, or upward in this case. How could she? How could she have…

"Go. Hermione." Luna said, right before her body slipped back into the darkness of the long hallway.

With pale knuckles, she took to the stairs, placing one foot before the other while her senses stretched out-hypersensitive, overactive, overwhelming. The magic of those within the home twisted around her, nearly physical in force and sight. With each step, she swore she could see little tendrils of magic, crying out to be used, asking and begging to be freed. Something was horribly  _wrong_  here, something that went beyond just The Order staking out there. Something that had to do with the state of the receiving room. Something that rubbed against her flesh and drove her onward, tiny whispers, tiny flickers of light that seemed to seep into her very being to push her to action. Her heart felt heavy, her limbs almost numb as that sinking sense of… emptiness spread from her chest, waiting to envelope her.

She didn't want to feel that way, she didn't want to… but it was better than fear, wasn't it? Better than the eagerness that clogged her throat and threatened to spill out from her. This was not her first mission, not even her first battle and yet she felt…

"Granger?"

She crested the top of the stairs, coming face to face with a nearby wizard. Again, she was faced with the terror of a long hallway-not a proper space for battle, to narrow, not even space to twist and maneuver-yet she knew her expression only displayed mild surprise and that numbness that clung to her chest.

She'd hold it close for now. Hope it kept her steady. Grounded. Logical.

"Is that you…? Mr. Diggle?" Memories shifted briefly before her eyes, of a stern-faced gentlemen, an escort to a family she'd never heard of again.

She kept her wand ready at her thigh, her mouth parted as she inhaled sharply. His expression was strained, his clothing torn. His overrun beard needed as much combing as his wild unchecked hair, but it was his gaze that held her attention, that wild disbelief that colored his eyes as he searched for words, or a scream to betray them.

"It's been so long," Hermione whispered, trying to keep the conversation low, knowing that one blurted word could bring footsteps thundering down upon them. "I've been so lost."

Because, she was not above omitting portions of the truth to secure her position for the future.

Instead of the cry for help that she expected the Order member blinked rapidly before he blurted out, "What are you doing here? The noise? I…"

There was a mighty thump from below them and another sound, muffled-someone had thrown up a silence charm.

"I was forced to come here, told about this place by the keeper… have you seen him? He helped me get here."

Diggle narrowed his eyes, suspicion making his face sterner, "He helped you… get here?"

Did the Order think their secrecy charm so strong that it would hide them forever? Or, were they not aware of Bill's betrayal? Of his dissertation?

"Bill, he… I've been running," Could he see her in the darkness? With his dilated pupils and the rapid fluttering of his lids? Did he see her new clothing? Her form that had filled out from a proper diet and Bellatrix's unwanted attention? She hoped the shifting shadows hid her well enough, where only her tired face and wild locks were visible. Where her lies could not be picked apart and the numbness could make them more believable. "I'm so tired."

So so  _tired_.

She licked her lips, "W-where are the others? What's happening? Where is Bill?"

Diggle took a step forward, gaze narrowed, his hand still held on his wand, "I haven't heard much of Bill, not since three days before now."

Hermione made her eyes look impossibly large, "Is he hurt?"

There was another sound nearby, and Diggle shifted his gaze to his back, to the endless stretching of the hall beyond them, "He's supposed to be bringing more…"

"More?" Hermione whispered, one foot sliding forward, to take her away from the immediate top of the stairwell.

His head whipped back around to face her, but if he noticed her movement he said nothing on it, "It doesn't matter child."

Now that she was closer she could smell the stench of whiskey and see the stains that dotted the lapel of his once brilliant coat. "What's going on?"

Diggle muttered under his breath, his words sharp and easy to hear with their environment muffled, "Bill? Weasley? He was the Secret Keeper? They told me it was the girl… but how?"

Hermione crept closer, "The girl?"

Diggle looked from her to the floor then back to her, before he lifted his wand.

She was out of time.

"Something isn't right. This can't be right.  _You_  can't be right. They told us you were dead. You were all dead!"

She couldn't stop her face as her lips twisted downward, as they pulled away to display teeth in a sneer of irritation and disbelief, "They? Who?"

While she had sat, and rotted away in a cell crafted by horror and madness The Order had thought her dead, had abandoned her to fate. And for what? So that they could grow crazed within the confines of twisted walls and bad magic?

But there was no more time for questions. No more information to be gained other than a few mumbled phrases. Dedalus Diggle had lifted his wand, a hex on the tip of his tongue just as Hermione brought up her own, a standard shield already set to slip into place. The bright sparkling light of his spell was magnificent, and when it smashed into the wriggling surface of her wordless  _Protego_ it splintered off, racing along the walls like a hungry live thing, leaving more rot and edged black in its wake.

She had no idea what that could have been and had no desire to find out.

"Augh!" His scream was vicious, filled with the conviction of his summoned power and despite his state of dress or appearance his magic was still intact. With wand shoved forward another wordless incantation ripped from the tip of his wand, but upon its collision with Hermione's shield it too rocketed off to scorch the walls.

It was then that Diggle drew closer while his wand fired off several hexes, all of them beating upon the shield Hermione held up before her with furrowed brow and lip pulled between her teeth. Not because it was difficult to face the onslaught, oh no, she was an experienced witch, a survivor of things that went beyond the battering magic that tried to topple her, but because… because…

For six long years, she'd slumbered, some shifting large thing within her, and only briefly for short periods of time had it ever wakened, fueled by the needs that curled within her belly but were often fleeting. For six long years, she hadn't been a part of any real battle-one being a battle for her sanity within the prison with the other being a battle for her elevation, short and sweet and not nearly  _enough._  Yet here she was, fighting for stability, while below her cracked and popped flashing colors and shifting bodies, things she could not hear but could glimpse from the corner of her eye.

Were they having fun, she wondered, hunting down those who opposed his reign? Were they curious, filled with thumping veins and the howl of blood as her careful blanket of numbness began to melt and warp, held prisoner by  _hunger_ , and a growing… a growing…

Was it rage that made her crack her own shield and shove toward the small man, who had come close enough that she could see her own intention to maim in the reflection of his gaze?

Or was it the excitement of action that made her hands connect with his person, forcing them both to tumble toward the ground as she wrestled for his wand hand, barely avoiding his free hand as it swung up to slug her against the side of her face.

She could have pleaded with him, could have told him that she was alive and afraid and  _trapped_ by the Dark Lord Himself. She could have asked him to take her. Could have told him her secrets. Could have asked where the others were and if there was someone, anyone, out there that could keep her away from the darkness that crawled and nipped at her sensibilities.

But she was already collared, trapped, and  _conditioned_ by a newfound greed, by her thorn encased freedom that bit into her flesh and held her bound and breathless. It was there, in the back of her mind,  _her_ voice,  _her_ haunting laughter,  _her_ corrupted beauty.

She struggled and fought and moved because she could no longer sit still. She pinned Diggle with the best of her ability while taking the weakening swings of his arm against her shoulder and side of face because... because the  _pain_  was fuel, a reminder that there was  _more_ than desperation and the stench of alcohol on parted lips. That she could scarcely live without it, the need to be  _hurt._

The need to hurt.

Only her heavy breathing injected the voice she began to silence as the hand that wasn't holding Diggle's wand hand down against the matted carpet began to press and wrap around his throat. She was lucky, incredibly so, that the other man was small in comparison to most. She could feel his muscles flexing, his back straining, and his  _life_ , his very essence, crying out to be free. She held the power there, the power to snuff it, the power to fan it.

She tightened her grip, used her weight to pin his much weaker form to the ground, straddled him like she had been straddled so very long ago, and hoped… hoped her eyes did not reflect that wild  _thing_  that pounded so strongly within her chest.

Because  _she_  was His Chosen, the burning Mark on her arm said as much, howled as much as magic sparked and twitched about her, ready to be used. But her body demanded a more… Muggle method, demanded the sensation of flesh giving way beneath her physical power-a power she would not have thought to use so many years ago. It was much slower than a killing curse, this amateur strangulation, but satisfaction as she conquered her attacker shifted through her body as wicked elation.

Then the sound of creaking steps made her blood run cold.

She gasped, startled, brought from perverse thoughts and action and quickly shifted to crawl off her… victim.

He rolled over with wide red veined eyes, gasping and wheezing as spittle and bubbles ran down from his lips. Hermione backed up, rump on the ground as her back hit the wall, her breath coming rapidly, her hands flexing-she couldn't shake off the sensation of holding him down, of feeling his struggle, of knowing she would have  _won._

So, while Diggle was on the ground attempting to collect himself she struggled to her feet and  _ran_ , moving blindly down a hall that was coming to life with flashing light-Diggles hastily wheezed out spells that meant little in his current state.

But she paid it no mind and ignored the idea that she had left one of her enemies at her back alive… and possibly very pissed. Instead she focused on the harsh murmur of voices as she neared the end of the hall, of the howling thoughts of dissatisfaction that yelled at her sloppy departure, and the screech of Diggle as whomever made it up the stairs finally… made it up the stairs.

They would clean up her mess, she presumed.

While she ran into another one.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Hermione had never expected to see Mundungus Fletcher again.

She had also never expected to see him manhandling a screaming toddler.

She almost hadn't recognized him, with his back turned toward her direction and his haggard appearance, but the twisting lights of the hallway, no more functional than those in the rest of the home, had gleamed menacingly across the slick sweat shine of his bald head. It was more than enough to stir up memories of a somewhat shady-and barely trustworthy-figure. Of a man whose reputation behooved him as little more than a notorious peddler and a suspected drunkard. Hunched over the child as he was, with his hand firmly encircled around her dainty wrist and his lips pulled back so sharply she caught sight of his browning teeth, she had to wonder how and when he had returned to The Order. She'd been certain-or as certain as anyone whose memories had been damaged by despair and lockets-that he had deserted them long ago, afraid to  _die_.

But not afraid to hide with those who seemed best at being hidden.

She swallowed a gasp, body incredibly tense and still even as sounds came in, garbled but somewhat closer, from down the hall. She reacted with a speed that depicted automation and subconscious experience, as her brain whirled on idle thoughts and haunting questions-

How was he  _here?_

Why was he  _here?_

Why was he gripping that child so harshly?

And, why were her cheeks slightly damp, glistening with long shed tears while her lips were screwed up in extreme discomfort?

As the familiar sensation of something flowing over her body-a simple but swiftly done disillusionment charm-broke over her skull and slid down her flesh with a recognizable chill, she came to realize that the man was breathing heavily, his grip more than just firm but impossibly tight on the child. Hermione was just lucky that he hadn't turned to face her before she'd managed to hide herself. With his attention captured by the jerking and struggling girl and his bugged-out eyes focused more or less  _through_  the child, instead of… at her.

Maybe she should have shot him with something, but the risk of clipping the child was too great, a child who held a fiery resemblance to a certain Weasley and a beautiful French-woman. She would not risk harming her, no matter the casual dismissal of her importance her Lord might have advocated for. She was… concerned. Not entirely for the child. Not entirely. But for the purpose. She was concerned about the desperation that made Fletcher grunt and wheeze. About the wild flicker of his gaze as he moved it about his person, only to toss it in her direction after the child gave a defeated wail.

But he wasn't looking at her, she was just another part of the scenario, standing in the open as she was and charmed as she had been. No, he was looking at the brief flashes of light that continued on down the hall behind her, flashes she couldn't see and yet she could almost  _smell and taste_  and expression of magic that roared behind her.

But as she spied upon him, a voyeur in the open, she watched with a creeping fascination as fear-a fear she had felt but a few moments prior-filled his gaze, darkening trembling eyes of brown into a murky crazed black.

Ah, so he was still a coward.

A trapped one.

"The bloody hell is going on down there?" He rumbled, voice strained as he dragged the writing little girl closer to his person and then, with a cruel jerk and a barked-"Stop!"- he began to pull her further down the hall, into the darkness.

Hermione followed him, nostrils flared, steps quiet… patient. Her mind whispered words to attack, that the time was proper, that he hadn't noticed her presence, couldn't  _feel_  it like how she was beginning to feel so  _much_  in the saturated groaning walls of the house that held them all. Yet, she did not lift her wand to his unprotected back. No, she was curious, to curious, to stop her silent stalk. This was important, he held information, purpose, that might do the Dark Lord some good… that was what she'd told herself.

But the reality of the moment was that there was something wickedly exciting about moving behind him, about watching his interactions with an inappropriate amount of disconnection. Gone was the rapid thunder of her heart, the fear of discovery, the nervousness of being caught. There was only now, this time of secrecy, this reveal of reasoning behind the raid. She could… sense that Fletcher was leading her somewhere, that the mystery would end soon enough and that she'd accomplish her task with more success than she had previously thought possible.

That was the… logical explanation for why she drew it out.

But within her belly churned something  _more_ , a desire… a  _want_  to hunt this wizard who had, so long ago, placed The Boy in unnecessary harm with his incompetence. It wasn't out of any need for vengeance, those needs had cooled and twisted into something  _other_  and yet…

She couldn't explain, couldn't  _fight_ , the pull.

_Soon, soon…_  She would help the girl, whose cries had renewed, and in turn she would gain what could not be known or currently said from the wizard she followed. After all, if she harmed him  _now_ , the raid would not reap the benefits The Dark Lord would surely expect, right?

Right?

"To much shit goin' on, I told 'em I wanted nothing to do with it, nothing at all." The man garbled, his tone hurried, frenzied, as he continued to drag the girl along obvious to her displeasure.

The girl in turn could only expend energy to keep up, her gaze pained and fearful. It was clear that she knew little about the dangers that twisted on around her-or maybe, just maybe, she knew far too well that something sinister had been set into motion and she too wished little to do with it.

"And here I am, on babysittin' duty- _stop-"_ Again he jerked the child, "While  _he's_  out with our glorious  _hero._ "

Hermione took a sharp breath, hearing strained, heart stalled. What was that? Their hero? Who?

"'N where the bloody hell is Weasley?" He complained, childish as he huffed before a large door with an elaborate seal carved into what was once delicate wood.

A seal in flaking red.

Hermione swallowed.

He shoved into the door without preamble, apparently able to open it without issue, while Hermione took care to memorize the pattern on the doorway as she crossed the threshold. It was something she had never seen before, not in any book she'd managed to procure in her school tenure, with its wriggled almost melting circular center and several slashed lines across the top and bottom.

Odd.

But odder still was the space she viewed, an incredible mundane and average room, and the figure who stood at its center with head tilted upward and a gaze that remained steady and forward. A gaze that looked right at her.

She held her breath, her own eyes wide, while her heart gave a painful lurch. For a moment, she felt… immobile. Trapped. Pinned behind a gaze that was  _painfully_  familiar and different. It stared forward, past the muttering Fletcher as he moved toward what looked like a nursery rocking chair and all but tossed the girl into it. It stayed on the threshold, on  _her_  and on the space that she hoped was still displayed beyond there. Could she see her? Could she know she was there? Spying upon them? There to  _snatch_  and take what the Dark Lord had claimed?

There to destroy and bring ruination to their piss-poor safety?

Then, with thin pressed lips, the woman turned the shifting brown of that startling  _invasive_ intellect away, settled them on Fletcher, and allowed them to narrow with unveiled disgust.

"We're being attacked," She said.

"No shit, Andromeda!" Fletcher all but screamed.

Andromeda Tonks looked little like what she'd been described as by The Boy. There was no soft light to her murky unfocused brown, or a hint of kindness in the ridged expression her face currently held. In that moment, as she stood with hunched shoulders in dreary torn dress, she looked more like Bellatrix, like a  _Black_ , than any description Hermione had ever heard. In fact, the comparison was startling, shaking. Andromeda cut a haunting figure of beauty, despite her ratted looks that screamed more or less  _prisoner_  than mistress of her home. Hermione blamed that on being on the run. But something else seemed at work here. Something that seemed to have infected every being she'd bumped into within the home.

Even the child, who was slouched in her chair with a well-deserved petulance, seemed off, as if something was around her, strangling her, giving her a look that went so far beyond her years. The look of someone who was currently being tormented, troubled, incredibly worried.

It had no place on the face of a child.

"Language, Mundungus," Andromeda said in a manner that reminded Hermione of Narcissa so acutely.

"Be quiet, woman," Fletcher replied, his gaze narrowed as he paced the space in the center of the room, the only room Hermione had seen that looked slightly put together, with its two small beds and scattered broken toys. At least the friendly and soft blues of the wallpaper didn't seem warped here and the carpets, though stained, weren't suspiciously torn asunder.

This was clearly a room where children were raised.

But the  _offness_  pulsed here too, caressing the ceiling with wandering tendrils of magic she couldn't yet see as it rubbed against her skin.

"Of course, we're being attacked, no thanks to  _him_  and his precious lot."

Andromeda gave off a soft sound, a sigh Hermione suspected, "We need to leave."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Fletcher just about roared, "The hallway is lit up like a Yuletide revel!"

He jerked, twitched as he began to rapidly stomp toward the doorway. Hermione was quick to move to the side, praying the disruption of space as she did so didn't seem to alarming and that in Fletcher current state he wouldn't catch the movement.

He didn't.

But Andromeda's eyes shifted just slightly, before they returned to her current company.

He closed the door with more care than Hermione thought him able to manage before he turned to lean against it, chest rising and falling, "I can't apparate either, because of  _him_  too no doubt!"

Hermione pressed against the wall, making sure to keep still as the conversation flowed around her.

Andromeda's lips twitched, but whatever she thought about saying died on her tongue. Instead she shook her head and moved to the girl, who looked up tiredly before holding out her arms to be held, "Did you even bother to help them? Mr. Diggle never returned."

"Probably ran if he knows what's good for 'em," Fletcher muttered, "and how could I? With the brat in the damn hallway?"

There was a lull in conversation, as Andromeda carefully tucked a strand of wayward hair behind the child's ear.

So Fletcher filled the space with more of his spat words, "All these wards and secrets for nothing! I've been in a land of horrors while others get to gallop across the countryside!"

His hands opened and closed, his brow furrowed in slight confusion, "And what for? A house that yells and taunts and screams-"

He paused in his erratic pacing, to cast his gaze around the room as if the very shadows were reaching toward him. He swallowed thickly, unaware that Andromeda wasn't paying him much mind before he continued his rant-

But Hermione continued to watch his movements, knew the patterns of desperation when she saw them. She'd seen such behavior before in trapped animals.

In prey.

And though Andromeda didn't outwardly express it, she was cautious, studious.

She was waiting for something too.

"And you? You seem awfully calm," Fletcher wheezed, "for a bird about to die."

"He's been training them, the ones you left downstairs-"

"I left them?!"

"-and it's possible," Andromeda interrupted, "they can deflect the invaders. Whose nature we have yet to learn."

"And who else could it possibly be? Death Eaters, every single one of 'em. You-Know-Who found us!"

"And how do you propose he did that? With the house the way it is?"

Fletcher coughed for a moment, swallowing words that were on the tip of his tongue.

"Mr. Diggle will return," Andromeda whispered, but she didn't seem to believe her own words, "then we'll gather the child and those we can find."

"Why?" Fletcher interrupted.

Andromeda floundered for but a moment, thrown off by the question, "Why? Why what?"

"Why take the kid?"

She scowled, "Mundungus?"

"She'd slow us down, doesn't even listen a lick-"

"She's our comrade's  _child,_ Mundungus! The Secret Keeper-"

"Who can't even keep a secret!"

Hermione held back a gasp, they thought the girl was the Secret Keeper?

"And how do you suspect Death Eaters would have managed to contact her? To get the secret from her?"

"She'll slow everyone down, and she isn't even our responsibility. Where the hell  _is_  Weasley? It's his whelp, it's his-"

"Mundungus!" Andromeda tried again, holding the child a bit closer, her expression one of disbelief and mild worry.

"She's always outside, I told 'em, I said don't let that kid wander around while we're doing shit. They never listened-"

"A child needs stimulus, none of that was being properly provided in this home."

"And you were always out there with her, right? So, when did it happen?"

"I beg your pardon?"

The room plunged back into silence, but this time it was… tense, uncomfortable. For a moment, only Fletcher's harsh breathing filled the space, the thumps and bumps beyond their room perhaps dampened due to a charm to help whomever used to sleep in this room remain asleep.

Fletcher took a step forward, "When did you allow the kid to give away our location?"

Hermione shivered as Andromeda tilted her head, her gaze of brown suddenly  _alive_  with the writhing forms of curious shadows. There was something so 'Bellatrix' about the way Andromeda brought her tongue past her lips to wet them before she whispered, almost in sing-song voice- "Excuse me, Mr. Fletcher, but what have you accused me of?"

There was a lick of something, something dark and heinous, something that curled over her skin with a sense of  _bitterness_. Hermione held her breath, hoping her magic didn't react to that  _something_  in it that was familiar,  _wild_  and yet so tightly restrained it made Hermione's teeth ache. There was something in this room, some force, that was clawing to get out.

Or someone.

"Yer the only possible subject, Tonks," Fletcher spat, his hand now upon his wand as Andromeda rose to a stand in a slow and calculated manner. She placed herself before the whimpering child, who shied back behind her tall legs. "Figures, you aren't freaking out because you effin' planned all this."

"Preposterous," Andromeda replied, calm.

And yet absolutely livid.

Maybe it was the paranoia that clung to him like a secondary stench, but he pressed forward, his breathing erratic, his wand now raised, "Who did you tell?"

Silence, heavy, oppressive.

Fletcher broke it with a yell, "Who did you tell?!"

Magic rose in the air, crisp and sudden and without waiting for Andromeda to draw her wand Fletcher thrust out his own. His incantation was wordless, impressive to Hermione who thought him mostly incapable of most high levels of magic, but the spell he used was simple enough.

The severing charm, usually meant for objects, was utilized to slice across the witch's legs. As if he'd intended to aim for the child who screamed behind them. Luckily it had been too weak to properly slice through and it seemed that the most Andromeda lost was a bit of her dress and some flesh-if the blood coming quickly to the space right below her knees was any indication. This didn't make Fletcher any less inclined to attack her and another repetition of the spell was well on its way when Andromeda twisted about to push the child from her position and toward the wall.

Hermione's wall.

The child connecting with her person was the only thing that kept her from immediate action. The time to merely watch was long gone, and Hermione would not allow the witch to be torn asunder by this crazed 'reformed' criminal. She belonged to Narcissa, after all, and certainly to Bellatrix. It would have been a crime for her life to be snuffed by any other. Yet, with the child now groping about in shock and confusion that Hermione's own legs, hidden and yet now felt, it was quickly becoming a daunting task.

The other witch held her own though, with wand now in hand and the child out of Fletcher's way she was able to bring up a hasty if crude and rushed, shield that bounced a wayward spell of brown into a nearby desk, forcing it to splinter and crack in half. Injured as she was Andromeda still proved to be a fast and skilled witch, firing a string of blue toward the wizard that forced him to suddenly shove a sitting chair toward her to block it.

Unfortunately, he powered the chair with a spell to increase locomotion and it kept moving until it collided harshly with the witch in question.

"Yah filthy traitor," Fletcher yelled as he stomped forward, hoping to take advantage of the tripped Andromeda as she struggled to regain her balance with a narrowed gaze and a grotesque snarl. "Yer nothin' but a dark witch! I told 'em, I told 'em you'd get us in trouble. That staying here was a bleedin' horrid idea!"

Andromeda didn't rise to the bait, she was far too busy putting more space between herself and Fletcher, though he was rapidly devouring it as he stalked the length of the room in long strides.

"If you come from  _that_  family, you go bad no matter what." His smile was unkind as he effortlessly moved more furniture into her path. A bookshelf fell and toppled, one of the beds swung up and pushed forward with such speed that Andromeda had to dive out of the way, before she retaliated by levitating a toy chest and thrusting it toward his ducking person.

"You wretched little man," Andromeda hissed. "You're letting paranoia dictate your already awful judgement."

But Fletcher wasn't listening, "The Black's all worship You-Know-Who. They abandoned us here because of you! I bet you killed yer own husband."

Andromeda faltered, flinched as if visibly struck and Hermione quickly tried to untangle herself from the child that now clung to her as if she were a pillar in a raging storm. Her face was drawn, her flesh pale, and her eyes flickered with a possessive madness that Hermione knew all too well, but within those depths also raged the storm of incredible hurt and surprise.

She was distracted, either way.

Which allowed him to come upon her, with all the fury of a terrified force. He lunged across what little space separated them, caught her easily enough at her center and they both went down to the floor in a struggle. Andromeda screamed but was silenced quickly, the sound of a meaty slap ringing in Hermione's ears and bringing forth a surge of loathing so strong she hadn't known she'd stepped away from the wall-child attached to her leg like a serpent-with wand raised and charm shattered.

And then the door blew in, sending out wood and billowing dust into the space. Instinctively Hermione waved her wand, trying to clear the risen dust from her immediate area and protect her unexpected burden, but as the cloud began to clear the being that stumbled into the room was an unexpected sight.

Blood dripped from her person, covered the entire left side of her face from a gash hidden beyond pale yellow chopped hair that seemed far too short and certainly uncared for. Her arms hung limp at her side with hands holding onto a wand that looked ready to slip from her grasp. A familiar leather jacket held multiple holes in several places, giving insight to the rest of what her once unique ensemble currently looked like. Yet, it was all very appropriate for someone who had no doubt fought their way through various spells and Death Eaters.

"Mum?"

Fletcher twisted to look over his shoulder, an expression of surprise on his face, his large meaty hands wrapped tightly around Andromeda's throat as she wheezed and bucked beneath him. For a moment, they were all frozen like that, the three staring at each other, right before Fletcher's eyes skimmed across Hermione's own revealed person.

"What the bloody fu-"

Tonks  _screeched_. Hermione had never heard such an inhuman sound before, such unleashed rage and unnatural hunger. It seemed incredibly mindless, monstrous, the way Tonks yelled her fury, the way her hair rapidly changed colors until it focused on  _black_  that was anything but normal or mundane. She lifted her wand, and for a split moment Hermione feared that flow of gathering power and the heady  _pulse_  it carried would be directed toward her.

But she was forgotten. It was Fletcher that held all her attention and it was Fletcher that scrambled to rise when Tonks swung her wand down in a moment like cleaving flesh. He wasn't fast enough and it slammed into him with such force and speed that he was lifted off Andromeda and slammed into the wall before her head. He collapsed on the ground clawing at his chest, his eyes full of tears as they rolled around his skull. He was dazed, she could tell, but the angry red boils that rose to his flesh and crawled over his neck and face was more pressing than trying to recover.

Andromeda began a slow but careful crawl away as Tonks moved forward like a demon possessed. Her expression was blank, concerningly so, and her head tilted, like a predator considering prey. In all her time around the carefree woman, she had never seen such… intensity before. Such careful and practiced rage. Whatever magic once lined the walls of the house, it seemed attracted to the moment, pulling in like sludge and pressing down. Hermione swallowed, knowing that the odd rhythmic thump against her skull was that offness, that otherworldliness, that must have been pressing down on the house occupants upon their arrival.

She expected to feel unnerved. Disgusted. Burdened. But with each breath a  _thrill_  hummed through her, as if she were a part of some raw magic that kept…  _influencing_  subtle actions. Heightening hidden truths.

The child clung tighter to her as Tonks growled, a low curious sound, from deep within her chest.

Right before she lifted her foot and swung it forward, intending to brutalize his ribs and break the angry boils that had sprung up there. He gave out a cry and dropped his wand to instead clutch at Tonks boot covered ankle. The sizzling fluid that was released from his boils seemed to do little to the dragon-hide there, but it certainly ate away at the flesh of his fingers and chest.

She pushed with little effort, blinking one good eye-as the other was closed, perhaps due to the blood that dribbled from her forehead-as she shoved him down off the wall fully onto the ground.

"Tonks," He wheezed, "You nutcase, Tonks!"

Whatever power his voice once had was saturated by pain and his ability to barely breath, "Get off me, get off me!"

Tonks sighed, though it seemed wistful and tired, as if some great dam had released within her, "No."

He bucked and writhed but something was broken, his body moved in a weird way, like a wriggling worm. Tonks paid it no mind and instead began to place even more of her weight upon his body, before she lifted her wand.

"Nymphadora." Andromeda whispered, tone raspy and already Hermione could see purple bruising beginning to form around her neck. Still, even though the witch had said her daughter's name, her gaze was upon Hermione, curious if not a bit amused at her existence and maybe the fact that the child still held onto her leg.

"Mum," Tonks replied, as her hair began to shift a bit pink before it slipped back into the usual black. Her shoulders were tense, probably due to the use of her name, not so much the interruption.

Since, of course, Fletcher had picked that time to scream.

"Ugh," Andromeda winced, "Silence him."

There was a soft whisper, and a snort, before Tonks flicked her wand, sending a red light into the male beneath her feet.

Right before he literally  _burst_  with a screech, rapidly swelling in size only to disintegrated into clumps of black soot once his reddened flesh split and his garbled voice faded.

"That is not what I meant," the older witch snarled.

Tonks wasn't sorry. When she turned around Hermione could see that plain as day in her exasperated expression as her wand fell from her grip and she swallowed thickly. Then she blinked and saw-

"Hermione?"

They made an interesting sight. Hermione, with her legs locked by a child. Andromeda, softly whispering as she sat up against the far wall and coaxed that child to her. And Tonks, who looked about ready to pass-out from what was no doubt magical exhaustion and from tampering with whatever  _otherness_  clung to the walls, with hair now an odd mix between pink, black, and white.

Then Diggle crossed the threshold and all-hell broke loose.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Before a spell was out of his mouth Hermione shoved the child away from her, into Andromeda's waiting grasp. The man had clearly taken a quick assessment of the room and had immediately come to the conclusion that Hermione, the evil woman that she was, had come into the space and brought forth doom and destruction. That wasn't entirely wrong, she figured. She felt like an ill-fated omen, knowing that maybe her very presence had brought down some horrible luck upon the Tonks family and one now deceased Mundungus Fletcher.

Tonks shouted something, but the sound of spellwork was loud and buzzing in Hermione's ears. Her blood was humming again, singing in tune to the thump of  _otherness_ in the house-now so thick she could practically taste it. She managed to push the child away just before she was hit with the force of Diggle's spell, something that lifted her with the power of its intention and slammed her back into the wall she had managed to get away from.

Pain blossomed in her back and against her front, but the slice of her flesh across her belly numbed quickly-a bad sign or the vest she wore at work. She slipped down as Andromeda moved further out the way, a motion she caught from the side of her eye, toward a wand-but whether she meant to help Hermione if she managed to get it, or assist Diggle, she couldn't be certain. Not that it mattered, Hermione still had her wand and the pain did nothing but fan the flames of her desire to survive.

And her eagerness to perform.

Her limbs responded when she told them to move and she dove forward, colliding with Diggle just as he had another spell on the tip of his lips. It went wayward, crashing further into the room and causing a small explosion that she hoped hadn't completely eradicated the people within. Once again, she found herself upon him, but he was quick, enraged and haggard from whatever force had managed to snatch him earlier, but let him go. He shoved and kicked with enough might to catch her unawares and it wasn't long before his fist connected with her chest and she was forced to give up her position.

The roll off left her exposed and wheezing for breath and he was quick to send another spell near her position, the kickback of which sent her flying further down the hall to land heavily upon her back.

In that split moment of clarity, of silence as her body ached and buzzed, she realized that she could very well die there out in the hall. Time seemed so very slow as her lips parted, as laughter bubbled up past her throat at the… potency of her introspection. He moved with purpose, his eyes determined, his face hard. She wondered if he had it in him, if the madness of the thumping house would drive him to kill her like it had driven Fletcher to violence, and she saw it, in the depths of his gaze, that maybe he would toy with her for a bit for his earlier humiliations before her death.

And maybe, just maybe, if she'd had the time she would have toyed with him too. Anything to keep feeling so  _alive,_ so in tune with the power that grew and twisted within her. With each breath, she felt more secure in the idea, in the thought. She felt that loathing in her belly, that rage she had grasped only moments prior, awaken the  _thing_  within her. For a moment, she didn't see Diggle, who lifted his wand in preparation. For a moment, she saw shifting colors, saw the inky sticky  _blackness_  that clung to the walls. Saw sick green pulsating threads of magic that traveled across them and the ceiling only to disappeared down the stairs. Saw Diggle, a brilliant black streaked being, illuminated as magic traveled from his chest toward his arm, but the green threads clung to him too, swollen and fat and  _feeding._

She wondered, if she'd had the time to look at herself, if they would have clung to her as well, if they would have fed off the magic that rose to her intention, at the memory of a dark and frightening hallway filled with glowing orbs, of a battle, of pain and blood, of a particular  _spell_  that would have ended her and a laugh that made her body sing and her mind splinter.

She was in a crouch by the time Diggle released his spell of blue, but her arm had already been in motion, a harsh swing downward-a perfect imitation, her mind meanwhile spinning images of a perfect recreation-that released a flame of purple, massive in its crescent shape and large enough to cover the entire breadth of the hallway. It devoured that tiny spark of blue, and passed through Diggle only to dissipate as it came out the other side.

He stumbled, gave a sharp gasp with wide eyes, before blood bubbled past parted lips in the form of a garbled: oh!

Then he fell to the ground.

A corpse.

She stood shakily, breathing harsh and erratic. She waited patiently for the guilt to hit, for the horror at what she'd seen, at what she'd done, but it didn't come. Something had  _changed_  within her. Something alarming. Her arm tingled, the words within her flesh felt just as alive as her thundering heart. Her flesh burned and prickled, sending tiny pinpricks of pain along her skin. She swallowed back a sudden moan, her unoccupied hand over her mouth to smother the sound as she gasped and stumbled back. Heat swam in her chest, twisted through her before it pooled low in her core, a heavy powerful throb, distracting and almost  _painful_  in its ache. Diggle laid still, his blood in a slight pool around him, and her knees felt weak, not from the trauma of it all but because it seemed so strangely beautiful. That was terrifying.

"Aw," A voice purred, a gentle rumble, "Was that you're first kill?"

She wanted to turn to look at the voice, but there was no need. She knew who it was, and could scarcely think past the desire that made her sway and the warmth of the body that was suddenly pressed against her back.

She croaked out a husky, "Bellatrix."

The woman looked otherworldly, her eyes dark, infused with a ravenousness that seemed out of place in their current setting. Her nostrils were flared, her fingertips hot against Hermione's skin as they traveled lightly down the length of her throat and down toward her arm, where her scar felt as if it were blazing, making her feel… crazed. Hermione couldn't help but gasp as Bellatrix murmured and traced the letters, as  _need_  turned her blood warm and made her dizzy. Bellatrix made a curious sound against her throat, but her attention was wandering, moving from the oddly acting scar and moving to her hips, to her belly, to the sliced and damaged vest bruising there-

Hermione could barely focus. The world was tinted in scorching reds, and her body continued to pulse with cries for attention. She couldn't push past the fog to find herself sickened at such a strong reaction, nor could she find the care to immediately question it. All she could focus on was Bellatrix hands as she examined her body and apparently found nothing immediate to be concerned about.

"I'm burning," Hermione gasped, thought herself cursed, "It's burning me."

Bellatrix growled lowly, a sound that would haunt her dreams, "The scar? It's only acting up a bit. It reacts to certain… things."

"Cursed," Hermione gasped out.

"Mhm," Bellatrix rumbled, "naughty things wake it up."

Hermione squirmed in Bellatrix grip, unaware that the sounds of battle had stopped beneath them and that the long hallway was deathly quiet before them, "It hurts…"

"Battle-lust," Bellatrix husked out, sending teeth to nip at her pulse, which made Hermione keen, "So exhilarating."

But  _lust_  had never impacted her so strongly before. Had never made her feel so out of control. She needed to get away, to think of anything other than Bellatrix touch, her teeth, her wandering hands.

Yet when she tried to pull away Bellatrix snarled, twisting Hermione around and pushing her harshly against the nearby wall. The blunt burst of pain only fueled the fire as Bellatrix grabbed her thighs with firm grip and sharp nails. She hissed but Bellatrix paid it no mind, instead she lifted Hermione up with incredible ease, using the wall to assist and forcing Hermione to wrap her legs around her hips.

Then she was everywhere, whispering crazed explanations in between harsh bites to Hermione's bottom lip, "It changes you. The torture curse. The magic."

Hermione snarled as she took her hands and wrapped them around Bellatrix back, wishing she had bare flesh to scratch and hurt as Bella bit her shoulder hard should to draw blood with an answering sound of aggression.

"Twists all your thoughts up, all your nerves." Bellatrix panted against her lips, "Now that you've tasted it, you'll  _need_ it."

To hurt and be hurt.

Hermione surged forward, lips set to crash into Bellatrix own, hands within her wild hair. She held her close, demanding, urging. She drew her teeth across Bellatrix bottom lip, clung to her tighter and bit. A shiver ravaged her spine at Bellatrix soft yelp of pain, at her surprise, at that one little sign of vulnerability that Hermione wanted to devour and pull tight around her body. It forced the other witch to open her mouth, to allow Hermione to press further, to slip her tongue out curiously along Bellatrix own which soon tentatively lifted in response. She gasped heavily, light-headed, inflamed, but their press of lips soon led to more. With each release for just the shortest of breath they rejoined, and Bellatrix pressed closer, as if she could become a part of her, as if they'd melt together from just one more joining of tongue and heat.

Her eyes slipped closed and she floated in the moment, in the intense domination that Bellatrix seemed unable to regain. In the way, her partner shivered and made soft sounds of frustration, tinged with obvious arousal. She felt bold, successful, a conqueror, releasing so  _much_  that she'd held within her in just their shared kiss.

But she wanted more. Her body ached, her core wet, her mind uncaring of where they were and what she'd done. Or maybe, it was because of what she'd done…

An odd sound and a gentle laugh broke through the fog though and all too soon Bellatrix was pulling back and away, breathless and flushed and perhaps a bit peeved that she hadn't had the upper hand.

Hermione swallowed a wild cackle, and instead settled for tugging sharply on Bellatrix hair, earning a sharp strained sound of pleasure.

"A-a-aunt Bella," Draco said, his posture ramrod straight, his face a wild cross between uncomfortable and terrified-probably of interrupting them, "The downstairs is secure."

As for his current company, Luna smiled broadly, if a bit wickedly, with flushed cheeks and her bottom lip between her teeth. There was something… tempting about her expression. As if she'd possibly enjoyed their raid about as much as Hermione's body was telling her she had.

How curious.

"There are three live members in the backroom, exhausted due to what I assume was Hermione's work" Draco continued, staring straight ahead, "They're incarcerated. I… It's the Tonks family and a child."

Hermione shook her head as Bellatrix nervously licked her lips, "They're mine."

"What?"

Hermione tugged slightly at Bellatrix hair, earning a glare and a sharp intake of breath, "We're going to take them."

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, "You did well, pet." She continued to press her into the wall, to crowd her, "But the prisoners-"

"I want them!" Hermione yelled, possessive and maddened, "They're mine! Mine!"

Bellatrix chuckled and nuzzled the side of Hermione's throat and for a time, she felt the wild shifting of her thoughts recede at the sensation of pleasure. "Demanding…"

Draco swallowed and made a sound that Hermione couldn't quite describe, but Luna gave a nod and moved toward the back room, "Dragon. Shall we prepare the portkey back? With the prisoners?"

Draco scowled, his cheeks red, his gaze now upon Luna, "What did you call me? And what about-"

Luna gave a twirl in the desolated hallway, carefree, eerie, and somehow still in her element, "Take Hestia Jones and her sleeping friend. Her birth star is lovely, and the moon is in the right place."

Draco didn't comment on the latter phrase, "And the others?"

"I'm so very hungry. I should like to get an early breakfast. We should gather our friends quickly and then, perhaps, Mr. Goyle and Mr. Zabini will take care of the rest?"

Draco gave a slow nod as understanding shifted between them, right before they were swallowed by the darkness of the hallway.

Leaving Hermione and Bellatrix alone again.

With a reluctant sigh, Bellatrix lowered Hermione back to her feet, muttering about properness and chaste kissing. Hermione couldn't bring herself to unwrap her arms from around her neck, as she leaned forward and rubbed her darker skin against the lighter tones of Bellatrix cheek.

She sighed, her voice a purr of longing, "Merlin, I hate you."

Bellatrix only rumbled, pleased despite her words, "Send it. Do it. I know you know the spell, swot."

Hermione complained, "The Muggles…"

"None have lived near here for ages," Bellatrix whispered, heated words against Hermione's neck, "And its proper etiquette to leave one's mark."

Hermione wasn't so sure about that, but with heat churning her brain she allowed Bellatrix to grasp her arm, the arm that shared both scar and His claim, and lifted it to toward the ceiling. The incantation was whispered into her ear-tittered really-before Hermione repeated it and green light leapt from the tip of her wand to splash against the ceiling there, absorbed and no doubt redistributed properly outside the house.

She didn't have to look outside to know His Mark would claim the dawn tinged skies.


	14. companionship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I was a bit nervous about the chapter. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> If interested in supporting and seeing more of my writing, please check out my profile and writing blog.

They would not allow her to see them. Her prisoners, her _claimed_ trophies of flesh and blood. They had decided to have them shuffled off to the dungeons, diverting Hermione to the Malfoy library via a hard-gripped Bellatrix instead of the receiving room proper, where the child, and the Tonks had been quickly and quietly gathered to no doubt be prepared for their transport. It was maddening, the idea that she could be _kept_ from those she had saved-or damned to the emptiness of solitude and darkness. It was clear she wasn't pleased, it was in the tension that tightened her shoulders, in the _fury_ that sang in her blood-

"They are mine by right, mine by suffering!"

But Bellatrix would have none of her petulant mood, with her gaze so black it seemed endless and her grip so tight her entire shoulder ached. She tried to wrench away, tried to escape the confines of the library, but Bellatrix was an all-consuming force, a being of strength that she shouldn't have held. She continued to direct her body with all the ease of someone good with managing the crazed-and oh _oh_ the irony of that!-and all too soon Hermione found herself roughly shoved onto the nearby couch and _pinned_ beneath the weight of the woman who refused to let her have what she _wanted._

But what did she want? Her mind was a spiral, stuck on the circular thought that if she could not see them, then they would _disappear_. Only Bellatrix, with her heavy breathing as she sat promptly on her lap and the way her hands slipped from her shoulders to her wrists and pulled them away from her wand holster to pin them to the back of the couch, kept her in place and from sinking further into the obsession. Suddenly, her focus was divided, settled partly on the angry throb of her reacting scar, with its heavy _thump thump thump_ of agonizing sensation, and the oppressive weight of the older witch leaning over her, hovering-

"Up, up!" Hermione snarled, "And let me be, demon!"

The words flowed from her without control. Logically, though her chest felt tight with fury, she knew something was… off. Something was twisted. She jerked and writhed as a restless energy swam throughout her being and good sense slipped through her fingertips like so much sand. Was it adrenaline that made her arch and pant, and Bellatrix growl and grind against her, or was it that something _more_ that made her skin feel flushed and her very core so _hot._

"They're mine," She gasped, as Bellatrix leaned over, her laugh so _husky_ and _deep_ , "all of them and… and-"

Would they hurt them? Or would they give her a chance to ask her questions? To demand to know what the slick controlling feeling of the house was? To get the haunting hum of pleasure out of her veins and the grotesque _beauty_ of the raid from her mind.

Then, it clicked-"S-something is still wrong."

Again, Bellatrix laughed, and something _clenched_ below her belly as liquid warmth swam lower and settled, returning that pulsing _tight_ need back to her still slick core.

"It comes and goes," Bellatrix whispered, the tickle of her breath upon her ear enough to make Hermione shiver as her mind shifted gears from thoughts of ownership to the need to be _possessed_ , "you need to be settled."

Hermione parted her mouth to claim that she was settled already, but her thoughts fought through cotton, flexing between a madness that seemed to _ooze_ from her scar and liquid-clarity that oozed from her core.

She clenched and opened her palms and tried to breath past the conflict that raged in her mentality. "I'm fine, I'm fine." She steadied her voice, tried to sound less _needy_ in her tone, more in control. "W-when can I see them? M-my prisoners?"

She tried to also remain calm and hold onto her moment of lucidity, but Bellatrix was still grinding against her, a slow seductive rock that wasn't very helpful. Her body had begun to squirm, to buck in a poor attempt at getting more friction-at feeling Bellatrix flexing thighs and her no doubt heated sex-when all she really wanted to do was escape.

"They're _mine,_ " Bellatrix hissed then, right before teeth nipped at her ear hard enough to make Hermione twitch and barely suppress a whine. "I will see to them first."

Such a statement was almost enough to make Hermione screech and rage again. Instead she swallowed another sound of strained desire, distracted by the impelling dance of Bellatrix lower body. There was no denying her allure, no denying that Hermione and the older witch by proxy, were still caught in a tightening web of battle-lust and awakened magic, magic that kept trying to strangle and drive Hermione's consciousness to wildness.

Teeth slipped along her skin again, marking her neck with raised and reddened flesh. The pain slipped up and down her spine, merging with the heavy throb of her arm and the pulse of her sex. A complaint was on the tip of her tongue, or a plea, or… or-

But then lips that were once sucking so _harshly_ at the elegant arch of her throat were suddenly upon her own again, pressing, pushing them apart with an expert manipulation and stealing her breath away as an agile tongue swept across her own. She gasped but found her earlier ability lacking as Bellatrix put so _much_ pressure on her arms to keep her stationary and ground down so _firmly_ against her lap, teasing her, _torturing her_ , with heady stimulation. No amount of clumsy kissing with Krum or The Red One could have amounted to even _one_ of… _these._

So, her raving was silenced, replaced instead by heavy breathing and softer sounds of submission as Bellatrix released her lips only to press against them again… and again, soft then hard until the wild howling in Hermione's mind began to ease to a low hum and the ache in her scar became something _more._ Magic slid across her skin, leaving a tingling itch in its wake. She could _feel_ Bellatrix so plainly then, feel beyond the heat of her thighs and the unyielding weight of her body. She could smell Bellatrix heady perfumes and the crisp scent of something woodsy while that _needy_ tug and pull of her magic left her scorched and bewildered. It was like someone else was in her mind, filling the back of her head with concepts both incoherent and understandable-and laughter, so much cackling laughter that made her tremble in thundering need.

Then she was released, left to pant and shiver while Bellatrx made an odd sound of victory in the back of her throat and finally, _finally_ , released her arms from their cage of power. Instead, Bellatrix hands moved to the side of her neck, caressing, stroking flushed skin and then down, down to her ribcage with ticklish motions. They explored for some time, examining bruises and small cuts, toying and pushing Hermione to the edge of pain with tingles of pleasant magic-high sensations… but then her hands were gripping her arm, _the_ arm, stroking as she cooed and seemed _pleased_ over that damn scar.

"Stop," Hermione whispered, but her voice was soft, weakened by desires' _sweet_ aches.

Bellatrix ignored her, instead mumbling softly about propriety as she slowed her rocking motion that had left them both yearning for more.

But Hermione would not let the silence settle around them, "What have you done to me?"

Bellatrix was quick to reply, "Claim you." Her smile was vicious, some strong hungry thing, "my _curse_ , my carving, all of them working together…"

"You poisoned me," Hermione said, eyes fluttering closed, "you tortured me."

"I cursed you," Bellatrix corrected, intense and nearly breathless.

When Hermione opened her eyes to catch Bellatrix gaze she could feel it, something perverse that curled through her own gaze, something loathsome that brushed her mentality. Her breath caught, her throat tightened. It was _there_ , inside of her, a growing fiendishness. Another's thoughts, so deeply entwined with her own that she wouldn't have ever discovered it if she hadn't… if she hadn't craved something beyond her mediocrity.

"There it is…" Bellatrix whispered, "waking up."

Hermione couldn't hide the sickness in her eyes, she couldn't keep the _shared_ madness at bay.

"It would have come eventually. Strong magic. Strong action. Strong emotion. Need…"

She'd been a walking host of _darker_ magics all along. Tainted. _Touched_. "W-why now. Why can't I…."

Breath. Think. There was only the ache. Only the hum of yearning. Only the restless curl of her magic, eager and ready to be used _again_. More and more and more. More power. More freedom. Just _more._

"That house…" Bellatrix began, before she snorted and shook her head, as if the powerful heinous state of the Tonks residence meant little at the end of the day. There would, undoubtedly, be others to investigate its state once Goyle and Zabini dealt with any garbage left behind.

"I'll die," She felt feverous, melting.

"Dramatic," Bellatrix purred, "you'll evolve."

Slowly Bellatrix began to rise from the couch, and Hermione had to repress the vicious urge to reach out and yank her back into position, "It'll ease. Soon. But never leave. You're touched by magic. _Real_ magic, and you still have much to learn."

"The Dark Arts isn't-"

Bellatrix snarled, "The Dark Arts is _everything_. True magic, the heights of which you haven't begun to even taste."

Hermione swallowed harshly.

"But He is patient and you _will_ learn."

She lowered her gaze, searching for the guilt that should have been beneath her breast, there from her kill and mayhem. Instead, she shivered, "It was so… lovely."

His death. The knowledge that she'd caused it. The beauty of his expression-that mix of agony and surprise at _her_ triumph right before life flickered and vanished-would haunt her, she knew it, but it also drove her. She wanted to see that again, to experience that power and the thrill of battle. She bit her bottom lip to repress a groan.

Bellatrix only rumbled quietly, that ravenous sound and gaze so… possessive. "Yesss…"

The older witch took a shaky breath and then continued, "I will give you more, I will feed your power…"

"I really shouldn't do it again."

"You will."

Then, with a soft huff and a smug smile she tossed a look over her shoulder, "Lovegood."

Hermione jerked slightly and took a wild breath. How long had she been there, in the threshold, watching them?

Luna moved forward with arms behind her back, her eyes impossibly wide and shiny, and yet they too seemed clouded with… desire. "Yes, Madam Black?"

"Exercise your right."

Luna gave a slow lick of her lips, something that looked impossibly sensual and yet entirely to casual, "Then breakfast, of which Lady Malfoy expects you attend promptly at the seventh croak of the seventh peacock."

Bellatrix gave Luna an exasperated, but no less smoldering look, as something silent passed between them, something Hermione tried to catch even as her thoughts began to turn to mush again.

Still, eventually, Bellatrix broke their communicative silence, "Yes, then breakfast."

Both their attention was upon her suddenly, and Hermione rose slowly, "Breakfast? But my prisoners, my…"

Luna smiled slightly and approached, her steps slow and calculated in a manner that seemed almost… predatory, "Soon."

Then, with one arm wrapped around Hermione's neck and the other about her waist Luna apparated them away.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

The sickening sense of being side-alonged without much prep must have been Luna's intention, for as soon as Hermione stumbled into the space, with a sound of immense displeasure-a snarl, her own wicked little snarl-Luna was upon her.

Well, upon her was a strong way to state it. Luna was _near_ her, pushing her onto the bed, tripping her up with a graceful near accidental movement-

"Oops," she'd said.

And then she was there, pressed down to the covers, with another body upon her, warm and heavy and wanted. Wanted so strongly that the ache-that had never eased, not truly-surged with newfound hunger. She reached her hands up, mindless, gaze wide and empty, and sought flesh. Luna let her have it, let her grab her dainty waist and tangle them up further, even as something small and overpowered screamed that this was… wasn't proper. That she belonged to Bellatrix. That she was _sure_ she belonged to Bellatrix.

And yet-

"It's fine," her voice was a panting whisper, a tickle of heat against her ear that made her tremble, "this is our right."

Luna, soft and so yielding. Luna, who giggled a bit when Hermione growled and rolled onto her side with her, their legs tangled about one another's. Luna, who wordlessly and effortlessly began to divest her of her battle-garments while she panted, a mess of need and dizziness.

"W-what… what does that..." But soft lips were nipping at her shoulder, so gentle in comparison to Bella's own bites of ownership, so teasing. They drove her questions out of her mind, scattered them beyond her grasp as those teeth and lips moved lower, over fabric that was there one minute, then gone the next.

"So many cute scars," Luna commented, her fingers tracing patterns across her shoulders, finding untold stories of past-horror in the raised tissue there that was suddenly so sensitive.

Hermione shivered.

"I belong to you," Luna said suddenly, holding Hermione's trembling body in the grip of her strong thudding magic. She felt... ensnarled, bound tightly by Luna's will and the spiraling wisps of darker silver that churned like shifting stars in her gaze. She was enraptured, inflamed and pulled by that gaze, by the kaleidoscope of colors that seemed all at once vivid and dulled—so many silvers, sometimes twisting into pale blues or odd violets, but never with a sense she could follow and never settling on a color that claimed normality. "Just as you will belong to her. All at once the same, and not."

Hermione found it difficult to trail that reasoning, not when Luna's hands were in her hair, pulling back her head with a gentle, yet firm, claim to dominance, "I am _yours_ , and as _yours_ , I will guide you, help you to become _hers_."

She gave off a sigh as Hermione moaned, a sound of lustful bewilderment, "My right… my right is to keep you sane. It's all very… standard practice. Very proper. Traditional really. Our Lord will be so proud of you, Hermione."

Had she been in her right mind, free from Luna's weight and the way her hands swept across, under, then around her breasts she might have asked more, begged to understand the how and why of pureblood culture, the specific statement that claimed Luna could touch and tease without retribution. And yet, she knew, somewhere deep within her addled mind, captured still by Luna's passive ability-was it legilimency that aided her? That let her know just where she _needed_ to be touched?- that being a companion to her was so much more than caring for her accounts.

"That's right…" Luna hummed softly, a breast captured in her hand, her tongue teasing across the hot pulsing tip, "this is yours. I'll give it to you… this skinship."

Then she was enveloped, pulled into a hot mouth that suckled so _gently_ , pumping more of that magic and heat along her flesh until she was arching and keening, her heart rattling against her chest, her blood liquid fire that pooled low beneath her belly and turned to slickness between her legs. The way her tongue flicked across that one spot, the spot that had begged to be touched, that ached from sweet ecstasy, was nearly enough to make her forget the fact that she was being _purposely_ distracted by her long-time friend.

A friend that _belonged_ to her. A friend that hummed pleasantly against her skin, moonlight perfection against the deep rich brown of her flesh. A friend whose magic seemed to sing with _joy_ at their connection, a connection that pulled her own forward until it pulsed beneath her skin with enough power to make her sex clench with the sort of heated desire she just couldn't _fight._

"Pleasure is very bonding, you know," Luna suddenly whispered, hot breath across her hard nipple, the hand that held her breast gently squeezing, kneading her, driving her to rock ever so slightly, involuntarily, against the body between her thighs, "lust and pleasure make you soft, so I hear. The magic core, it's very exposed then, manipulable. I can _touch_ you, your magic. It's so much easier to feel you now, the _real_ you. Thumping right beneath your skin, calling to me. It's so stimulating, so commanding..."

She sighed dreamily before she gave her nipple one last flick, inciting a soft moan and gasp, before she moved further down, untangling herself with a strange grace and expertise from Hermione's desperate and possessive grip, only to draw that tongue past the scarring that ran there to the top of her chest and into the cavern of her belly button and focus there, for just a teasing moment.

But it wasn't until Luna made a curious sound and drew dancing fingers through the well-managed and perfectly maintained hair above her pelvis that she gasped and jerked, panting, so _hungry_.

She was drooling between her legs, aching with a deep throb that called all her focus to that single point. She parted her lips, gasped out a - "Please…"

Only to be shushed as Luna sat up, just a bit, in order to spread her legs, "I've got you, my Lady."

Hermione shivered, her spine tingling, as Luna's unexpected tone of affection and adoration swept over her, _through_ her, stirring something dark and wild within.

Then she whispered, voice low and soft, almost _wicked_ \- "It's time for worship."

She didn't resist. She could barely breath as Luna lowered her head between her legs. Idly, some small part of her screamed that this was dirty, that fantasy and reality would be a vastly different experience. That part was overwhelmed by the heavy hum of her desire and the magic that urged her to submit.

So, she did.

Warm hands wrapped around her thighs, firm and _real_. But it was the gentle breath that came from Luna that captured her focus and held it. All her senses, every last thought, was suddenly upon the heat that came from an open mouth. On the tongue that tentatively flicked across the tip of her throbbing clit before it pressed more firmly. Air escaped Hermione's chest in a _whoosh_ and just as she prepared to draw more in she felt… she _felt-_

Lips drawing around her swollen clit, pulling it into the warmth of Luna's mouth and…

" _Oh…_ " Hermione arched just slightly, only to feel Luna's growl of warning against flesh, and the added pressure of a _nip_ to her most sensitive space. She knew, almost instinctively, that she was being told to settle, not to rock so _impatiently_ against the exploring tongue that pushed and played with her clit or the _soft teasing pressure_ of those lips as she sucked but…

But her body was no longer within her control. Her blood ran hot, her skin was flushed and sweat-slicked, her magic singing-wrapped so tightly around Luna's own.

She tried to speak, to say a number of things, to ask why her magic felt so heavy within her own skin. To demand why Luna's seemed so in control. She wondered at the heady thickness of _pleasure_ , at the humming in the back of her mind that warned of raised magic and building spells but... But it was all so irrelevant compared to Luna's gentle sucking between her legs, to the flick of that tongue that slipped up and down her slit to tease her entrance before returning to her aching tortured clit.

She was becoming _undone_ , swept away as Luna began a slow increase of pressure and attention. Fingertips that had once been wrapped around her thighs were soon exploring, reaching down to give a harsh almost possessive squeeze to her arse before one hand repositioned itself over her pelvis and the other…

Oh yes, the _other-_

The other was pushing, teasing, slipping just past the entrance of her weeping slit to tease the inner walls there and make her _clench_ and _throb._

And it was all so very seductive, if not incredibly controlling, from the warm pressure of the hand upon her that practically radiated heat as it stroked her skin, to the lips and teeth that manipulated her toward greater heights of ecstasy. She was so _wanting_ that it hurt, but each inner ache of her body only carved into her being a greater need for the sweet touch of such pain.

But then that exploring finger, that had been playing with her sex and her sanity, shifted forward-

And her moan was low and thick with her urgency.

If Luna had said anything to her after that, she was barely aware. She was focused entirely on the motion of the finger deep within her belly, on how it slipped in and out before it was joined by another, filling her, stretching her… She couldn't take it, not after being wound up, not with the scenes of battle and lust and _Bellatrix_ in her head.

Not with Luna's soft sounds of pleasure vibrating against her clit.

Not with their magic, joined in it's odd dance, lashing at her hotly in an intricate way so _ancient_ and _old_ that she nearly forgot she was flesh and blood and a thrall to her desires. That she had been anything at any point other than _power_ , _ability,_ and _pleasure_.

Something grew deep within her. Something that radiated _completion_ and need. She was so wound up, so _full_ -

And it all felt _so so good_. Too good to resist, too good to question, as the ball within her got tighter and tighter and tighter-

She broke then, swept up by Luna's gentle touching, overcome by the sudden release of pent up tension, heat, and magic and her soft cry as she came was almost startling, a sudden noise over the softer sounds of overwhelmed pleasure she'd made earlier, sounds that had been interrupted by her heavy quickened breathing and Luna's own sighs of content.

She was frazzled, melting, dizzy. Her mind was shifting through cotton as a bone deep exhaustion curled through her, mingling well with the warmth in her belly and the idle spasm of her sex around Luna's fingers. She closed her eyes as she caught her breath, as darkness tried to blanket over her consciousness and Luna sat up fully between her legs. Nothing need be said, she didn't fight or complain as her companion turned her over onto her side and began to manipulate them both under the blankets. It gave Hermione just enough time to realize the carving in her flesh had eased back into slumber while the Mark churned out a sense of twisted joy and content through her blood.

She didn't realize she was making an odd sound until Luna-who moved hands over her sides and began to tickle her spine-whispered into the darkness.

"Hermione?"

Hermione huffed softly, barely aware of much else other than the warmth of Luna at her back and her touch as she dipped her hands lower and lower until fingertips were applying pressure _right_ at the base of her spine-

Merlin, _yes_ , right there, right there-

"L-luna?" She slurred, arched just slightly as she nuzzled deeper into a pillow.

"Did you realize," the dreamy one mumbled, teeth nipping gently at an exposed shoulder, "that you're purring?"

Heat flooded her cheeks.

Oh, yes. _That_. She… hadn't known she could still do that.

"Polyjuice incident. Second year." She smothered her face further.

"I see," Luna said pleasantly, right before she began to knead the skin of her hips while rolling circles near the dip of her back with her thumbs, a motion that made Hermione gasped out as her spine tingled and heat began to flutter in her sex. "But Hermione…?"

Hermione squirmed a bit more as those fingers grew bold again, abandoning her back to squeeze her arse before they slipped up and around her belly to clutch at her breasts. "W-what… what, Luna?"

"I'm not done."

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

Breakfast was a strange and tense affair.

Hermione figured it was due to the unmentioned company they'd put beyond her reach, the exhausted expressions on the faces at the table-well, oddly enough, she felt somewhat refreshed but she blamed that on the odd magic and _things_ , Luna had done to her-and the child idly swinging her legs as she picked at her eggs.

Narcissa was next to her, stiff and silent, cutting up thick bacon into smaller pieces for her, the child named Victoire. Who was owner to a dull gaze and lackluster blonde hair somewhat tangled and damp from what had no doubt been a generously given bath. She hadn't realized how hollow and _small_ the child had been back at the house. Seeing her here, now, merely mimicking human emotion and action was odd. Wrong, somehow.

Hermione cleared her throat, nervously, "Hello Victoire."

The child glanced up from her plate, chewing slowly, but didn't answer.

On her left Bellatrix snorted, her hand possessively on her thigh, an action Hermione found herself unbothered by while Luna, on her right, chatted about everything and nothing to a barely functional Zabini.

"How is she like that?" Hermione heard Draco grumble, " _my_ companion doesn't settle me like that."

Zabini twitched at his side, but otherwise smiled politely and remained engaged with Luna.

Ah, so it was normal, this… _skinship_ shared between purebloods. She still had questions, but those could wait. The odd rumbling guilt she'd felt when she'd been stirred for breakfast had melted as quickly as it had appeared. Instead it had been replaced with curiosity. With an interest in the way her magic rubbed against Luna's own, in how she could flex it in a way that made Luna shiver…

In a way that made Hermione _want_ to take back the control she'd lost to her…

But, she supposed she could focus on that later.

Hermione made quick work of the last of her breakfast, knowing Narcissa wouldn't release or talk to her until she did so, but she was unable to keep her attention off the child and her wonder of why she was there when the rest of them were-

"No questions at the breakfast table, pet," Bellatrix grumbled, sinking clawed fingertips into the pressed fabric of her slacks. Hermione could only growl in response, hands twitching as she repressed the urge to do the same back. It was somehow more difficult to control herself after the night before. That _something_ in her chest, that rolling ball of intense emotion and hunger, had only been _teased_ during the raid. Luna's gentle touch had at least eased the madness in her head, but it had awakened everything else.

"Get out of my head," she mumbled nastily.

Bellatrix only tittered, leaning over, pushing against her with such confidence and eagerness that Hermione's breath caught, "Still fussy, girl? Do you still need?"

Hermione only flushed and looked away brow furrowed before she huffed and turned her attention elsewhere.

Bellatrix rumbled, pleased at the small victory, only to jerk back and away from her when Narcissa turned _cold_ eyes upon her.

Just what had _happened_ while she'd slept?

"Victoire," Hermione tried again, keeping her voice soft and what she hoped was kind and not irritated, "do you remember me?"

Victoire paused for a moment, looking a bit nervous, before she turned and gave Hermione a bit of a smile, "The Wall."

"The Wall?" Bellatrix grunted out right before she took her wand, her _true_ wand, and used it to stir up her morning tea.

"The Wall," the child repeated, before she bounced in her seat a little, "I asked the house to help. I asked the house and it said help was here."

Now the girl practically glowed, staring at Hermione with a bit of fervent admiration.

Hermione narrowed her gaze but remained pleasant, "My name is Hermione."

"Hermione Wall," the child replied.

Draco laughed into his toast.

"No, Victoire," Narcissa gently corrected, "It's Hermione Granger. She's very important and she saved you. She is not a gift from… that house."

Narcissa tossed Bellatrix a bit of a look, which the other woman returned by flashing _far_ too many teeth. Apparently, someone didn't want to talk about the state of that house and what it meant.

But Hermione knew who would.

"The house was scary. It did weird things," the child suddenly blurted out, her tone eerily empty, "don't send me back there, please, ma'am?"

Narcissa reached over to pat her little trembling hand, "Of course not, dear. Finish your breakfast."

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"I want to go. I want to see them."

"Impatience is not becoming of a lady, Hermione-"

"I don't bloody- _Cissa,_ please," Hermione cleared her throat, tried again, while Narcissa stared at her with the sort of intensity reserved for savages and _Muggles_ , "Narcissa. Madam Malfoy…"

"What is it, Hermione? Are you trying to soothe me?" Her eyes were narrowed, her magic pressed against her flesh, cold and irritated, but there was also mild amusement dancing among the exhaustion in her gaze. "Cissa. You called me Cissa. Then you begged… I sort of like that."

Hermione sucked in a breath then slowly let it out, unbalanced as she toyed with her hands. After breakfast had concluded they'd all shuffled off to attend to their specific duties, duties Hermione could barely comprehend at the moment. Instead, she had left the haunting call of research and Luna's gentle insistence about going to Gringotts to meet Narcissa on the garden porch. She'd been somewhat curious about her pensive expression and drawn brow as she watched the child-Bill's child-tentatively explore.

The white massive peacocks on the property didn't seem to like that, but Narcissa wasn't worried. So much so that she was now giving most of her attention to Hermione.

She wasn't sure if she was lucky or not in that respect.

"N-narcissa," Hermione whispered.

"Cissa," Narcissa whispered back, before she sniffed lightly and moved the intensity of her gaze back to the gardens and the child, who was now screeching as a peacock hobbled toward her, wings out and beak open.

At least she seemed more alive.

"Cissa," Hermione tried again, "you didn't…"

"Kill them? Hurt them? No Hermione, it's unnecessary, I told you as such. She's home now." Narcissa's shoulders were drawn, her back tense, "Not happy, no. But home. We can work on her. She's so _saturated_ there's no way the curse wouldn't sway her…"

Hermione frowned, "Saturated? Curse?"

"It's…" Her words froze. Perhaps the older witch had said too much. "Shit."

Yes, she had said too much.

"I'd really prefer to not be punished, Hermione. Bellatrix has a heavy hand, when she's stirred up," Now Narcissa was curt, irritated, more so than she had been. She had a feeling it was because she'd cursed, not so much that she'd given something away.

"Bellatrix is out killing, scheming, begging the Dark Lord for power—whatever it is that she does when she is not haunting me," Hermione growled, "and I deserve to know, as a future part of this family, do I not?"

She was trying, oh how she was trying. She didn't _want_ to be petulant, but the Dark Lord had given her this task and surely those bodies belonged to her even if Narcissa and Bellatrix were being selfish and hoarding them.

Then, one moment Hermione was stomping her foot to emphasis her point, and the next she found herself pressed up against the wall to the manor, her body caged between Narcissa's arms and the weight of her torso. Her heart rattled in her chest, her face felt flushed…

For being so chilling, Narcissa was so _warm_. Her body practically hummed with magic, with _presence_. She was authoritative, undeniable, in a manner so familiar to Bellatrix and yet different all the same. It reminded Hermione so _painfully_ of her submission under Luna that she suddenly flung up her hands and pressed them-firmly, but not aggressively-against Narcissa's chest. She didn't… she wouldn't… be toyed with. Not again. Not when her body howled to be the one _doing_ the toying.

"Ah," Narcissa mumbled, breath hot against Hermione's neck, "she's teaching you, isn't she?"

But Narcissa would not be denied and all too soon she had her more firmly against the wall, with a knee between her legs and Hermione, body swimming with the beginning stirrings of desire, _prayed_ that Victoire had been chased further into the gardens.

As if sensing her thoughts Narcissa chuckled, "We're alone."

That didn't make it better.

"Let me tell you something, Hermione, and then, perhaps, I'll let you speak with my rebellious sister."

Hermione swallowed harshly, tried to think past the rapid nervous thud of her heart and the way Narcissa's whispers tickled her ear. It was only made all the more apparent by the way her hands, wayward and bold, began to draw themselves up the side of her body-

"I… I'm being courted by Bellatrix," Hermione gasped, "so isn't this a bit-"

"Improper?" Narcissa drew warm lips across the exposed flesh of her neck, "Hm... She really should decide what courting bauble she'll give you. Then we wouldn't need to… hold back."

And that did very little to ease Hermione's confusion or the rolling heat that shifted through her veins.

"You see, Hermione. Our family, the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, is a vain and self-destructive thing. A collective of petty individuals, snakes-eating-snakes."

Hermione gave a soft sigh, the sound pushed from her chest as Narcissa's hands found the bottom of her jumper and-

"Yuck, really must get you out of these things," She said, distracted, before she continued, -

"We have manipulated, orchestrated, and perpetrated the distinct fall of several other witches and wizards, most of noble houses. Hungry for power. Passionate for ruin. That sort of thing. But then… then it began to turn inward."

Hermione made a slight sound of acknowledgement, her focus split between the way Narcissa's nails scratched at the scar tissue around her ribs and the story being weaved about her. She could envision them, Narcissa's family, starving and chomping at the bit for more and more and _more-_ -

Because it was what they were currently doing, what _she_ was currently doing, with her trailing lips and naughty hands that slipped just around the back of her body, over her tingling sensitive-she sucked in a gasp-spine to slip into the loose-fitting pants she wore to squeeze her _arse_.

That couldn't possibly have been appropriate, to touch her in such a way, pureblood rules or not it… it couldn't have been-

But Hermione melted either way, cowed by Narcissa's aura of dominance and awakened to touch.

"Brothers murdered brothers, starving for control. Vaults began to empty, and birth rates began to falter," Narcissa said, her voice somewhat distant while her hands remained bold, "Our Lady Magic no doubt sought to cull us in our search for god-hood, but we were persistent, emboldened by the riches we refused to lose and disillusioned by the control we thought we held."

"I'm told Cygnus the First came up with it. A curse to sway his kin, a miracle to keep his head." Her lips were still for a moment, if only so they could be pressed against her rapidly thudding pulse, "But it was an infection, an oppressive wicked wilde magic that swam through our veins and spilled out in our blood."

Hermione took in a sharp breath, her gaze set to flicker from the blonde locks atop Narcissa's head to the empty-now eerily silent-gardens, "W-wilde magic?"

Narcissa sighed, but the sound was more curious than distressed, "You've so much to learn. Magic. Wilde. Untamed. Unplottable… normally. It's a gift from the Olde Ones… The Gods, girl. And our Lady Magic is the center of it. The Dark Lord, genius that he is-" And for some reason, Narcissa seemed more playful than reverent when she said such a thing, "believes that wilde magic is given to you, dear, the Muggle-borns, to turn them into Firstborns. You're a gift, lost and slaughtered bloodlines reborn."

"The research," Hermione mumbled, distracted by knowledge.

"Was based on that ideal, yes. That Lady Magic gave the Firstborns to us, the pure blooded, to cure our self-imposed infertility."

Hermione opened her mouth to ask more, _hungry_ for understanding, but a pinch to her arse was enough to turn her question into a squeak.

"I digress," Narcissa mumbled, "we can talk of the Light's plan of line theft through ignorance-theirs and our own-some other time. All that you must know is that wilde magic, true raw magic, does what it pleases. Unpredictable. Fickle. And _dangerous_ -

He gathered that magic and pushed it upon his kin. He weaved his curse of manipulation and found it easier to bond with _family_ … in the biblical and political sense. There were no more plots for destruction of our own, we became fanatical in terms of familiar togetherness, and it became easier to wed cousins with cousins. Our love, our _madness_ , knew no inhibitions."

And suddenly, it began to click…

"You controlled her," Hermione shuddered, "I-in the hall. When we left for-"

"-Oh yes, Hermione. I certainly did. I reminded Bellatrix of her _duties_ through the pull of our shared… affliction."

"A-and you…"

"... The Black family is unlike any other you've experienced. Indeed, a great deal of us who worship the Olde Ways are not held back by… the moral implication of Muggles. We _share_ , in all things. We are _one_ , us sisters, through no fault of our own of course but because magic bids us to be."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean…" Here Narcissa paused as she slowly leaned back, her gaze a heated whip, "that we are _one_ , three separate bodies…"

Her mind began to race, began to pick and peck at certain instances. At the sickening sense of magic so thick and potent and familiar. At the remembrance of soft conversations and the odd familiar mannerism the two Black sisters shared so _easily._

"All pieces of the same soul, or so I'm told." Narcissa whispered.

Hermione had nothing to say to that.

"As our family gave birth to more and more beings, some Squibs, some stricken by the pressure of the magic dictating their actions, telling them they must obey… filling them with impulses that could not be described, with voices to soft and to loud, the hold of the curse grew stronger. It was a magical virus-don't look at me like that, I am aware of what a virus is, it's not a strictly Muggle ideal-mutating and forming in different ways, impacting our judgement, making us feral…"

"And then," Hermione whispered…

"And then Bellatrix was born. As wild as they come, a literal personification of passion and magic, Mother used to say. But something was missing-"

"Her sense…"

Narcissa chuckled, " A bit of it. She was a frighteningly intelligent witch-though in that respect, all three of us are-but she wasn't whole."

"Ms. Tonks-"

"Just as wild."

Hermione gaped.

"Surprising, isn't it? They were _twins_ in nearly every way. Andromeda came a little more reserved, but she was easy to influence, and Bellatrix is very influencing. They _clicked_ in a way unheard of, Bellatrix the warrior, Andromeda the tactician. But something was missing."

"You."

"Me." Narcissa confirmed, "The _control._ Only then was our circle complete, our _soul_ whole. Once all three of us were together it was balancing. Mentally. Magically…"

"But-"

"-but then," Narcissa sneered, "Andromeda in her foolish rebellion broke our circle. Our power was somewhat stunted-oh, don't be so shocked. Bellatrix is powerful now but _before…_ Well."

Nothing more need be said for Hermione to understand that concept.

"So, your house, your family, has a curse. It's impacted you three. It's a… a madness of sorts, an unhinging. It was built to keep brothers from slaughtering brothers originally, but when your line expanded those brothers became… became host to the slivers of the same soul, an aspect that wouldn't be extremely apparently until your birth."

Narcissa hummed, impressed with Hermione's grasp of her explanation, but she was no fool. Magic _was_ extremely unpredictable as it was, let alone anything _wilde_ and meant to bind.

"The curse would have also made it easier to… to breed with your cousins."

"It certainly eliminated the reluctance, I suspect." Narcissa murmured, "Thank goodness I have no experience to pull on."

But Hermione was scarcely paying attention to that. She was watching Narcissa, the softening of her gaze as lust made her warm and dreamy and the budding affection there…

"You feel what she feels…"

Narcissa seemed hesitant to speak then, or maybe she was distracted since her grip was still upon her flesh, "To a degree. Yes. I feel it. The strangling possession. The _obsession_ with you. The need to _consume_ you. It's all there…"

"W-what do we… what do I…?"

"It changes little." Narcissa whispered, "The Black family… no… Those of us who adhere to the Olde Ways have never held issue with bonding through touch. It strengthens the magic, binds our family. Sharing will not be an issue for Bella… we-Andromeda and I-are just extensions of her. Likewise, she is just an extension of us. She is just another one of my hands, and what do I care if my hands touch what is _mine?"_

She expected to feel cold. Insulted. Enraged. Afraid.

All that she felt was on _fire_. The hunger in her veins was a constant hum, a backdrop to a sudden intense _greed_ that was almost out of place. For six long empty years she'd been alone. Chilled and _weak_. Now, now she was… so so alive. She was an empress on the edge of a nearly conquered kingdom and….

She closed her eyes, took a few deep breathes and Narcissa's twinkling laughter tickled her ears.

"That excites you? The idea that I belong to you just as much as Bellatrix will? That you belong to me just as much as you belong to her?"

"W-what of Lucius?" Hermione croaked, trying to contain the giddiness that twisted through her belly, "W-what of Andromeda?"

"Lucius is very aware of… the Olde Ways. Though, let me be clear, that those who belong to him have _always_ belonged to me."

"A-and I?"

"Nonsense. He will be respectful and subservient. You are the head of Elevated House Granger and soon to be a Black. He will keep his very lovely hands to himself. Besides, he has Serv-"

She paused then, blinked, and shook her head.

But it was a bit late for that, Hermione's curiosity was peaked.

"As for Andy," Narcissa mumbled changing the subject as she slowly removed her hands from the inside of Hermione's pants and stood straight, recollected and the model subject of absolute decorum, "She will… feel _whole_ again with time. The more of it she spends with us, the easier she will be to… control. We _must_ convince the Dark Lord that she is _ours_ and not the Orders if she is to avoid imprisonment for treason. You will help with that."

It wasn't a request.

"And Nymphadora?"

Narcissa turned away from her to step carefully down the steps, her destination obvious-the gardens and the child that had started screaming again within them.

"Is she not yours to train?" Narcissa said, distracted as she approached the winding vines and snapping plant life, "You are in need of vassals. Do what you must to tame her."

And then, she was gone.

**o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o**

"They told me you were dead."

Malfoy Manor was an interesting and unnecessarily labyrinthine _delight._ The unneeded amount of rooms and spacing was disorientating. Maybe it was the magic that hummed in the walls, thick and twitching as it caressed her skin or maybe it was by natural design, but the home held far too many corridors and floors that were kept for nefarious purposes.

"Who?"

Still, despite the layout of the manor she'd found this space easily enough. She'd followed the constant _thud, thud, thud_ of _other_ magic. The haunting whisper of something _dark_ and _bizarre._ It clung to the space, held at bay only by the more benevolent wards embedded in the manor itself. She could feel it twined between her fingertips, raw, _begging_ to be used in a way she couldn't properly comprehend. But it was more than that. It felt…

_Addictive._

Just like that _house_.

"The Order… those that were left, at first."

The voice before her was tired. The person it belonged to even more so. She wasn't surprised by this. The space is oppressive. A simplistic cell with a small cot and-surprisingly-a blood red carpet at its center. It's a mockery of finery, all of it, including the single ornament candle flickering on the table against the wall.

But it's the massive plush chair in the cell, the only thing that looks remotely comfortable, that Andromeda is settled on.

And despite her exhaustion and the shadows that twist among her liquor brown gaze, there is something _regal_ in her posture and appearance. Something beyond the tension and the _ooze_ of that magic that filters out from her. One leg is crossed over the other, despite her tattered skirts, and her hands are linked together over her lap… It's almost enough to hide the fine tremble of them.

It was an admirable display, for someone who'd recently experienced the torture curse.

"Bellatrix-"

"No."

Hermione swallowed, this was the third time she'd been thwarted in her attempts to find out what Bellatrix had done to Andromeda upon their return. Hermione knew the signs when she saw them, she'd experienced them after all, but…

"How have you been, Hermione?"

She changed the subject either way.

"Dead," Hermione answered, leaned forward in her chair as she toyed with her hands, a habit that kept her mind moving and the temptation of drawing the magic about them into her being at bay.

"You too?" Her voice is empty, but it isn't cruel.

"Who else is… I meant emotionally."

"I see."

"What did you mean when you said-"

"It doesn't matter. I can't speak of it-"

"A spell-"

"-something like that," Andromeda interrupted, her lids lowered, a brow quirked, "It is good to see you again, alive. Even in these circumstances."

"The Order-"

"-You killed a good amount of them, didn't you?"

Hermione thought of the bodies, of the carnage done to the lower floor. She licked her lips and shuddered, completely aware that she wasn't disgusted but excited. She clenched her hands and gave Andromeda a shrug. "There are others, aren't there?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"The spell then."

"Or stubbornness. It's difficult for you to tell, isn't it? You aren't a Legilimens, they haven't taught you that _yet_."

Their cryptic conversation chipped away at her patience. That and the haunting press of Andromeda's tainted magic.

"They're going to kill you." Hermione went for bold.

"I'm ready to die." Andromeda went for chilling.

But…

"You're lying."

Andromeda sighed, a soft wistful sound, "I'm not sure that I am."

Slowly Hermione leaned back, brows furrowed, before she licked her lips. "Open up to me."

Andromeda gave a bitter snort, "To you? Death Eater Granger? Betrothed to Bellatrix Black?"

There's something… _off_ about that statement. Something bitter and petulant. Exploitable.

"You don't like that-"

"-of course I don't like it," she spat, before she rolled her shoulders in a way that was meant to be disinterested but came off as a shudder, "She's dangerous, that woman-"

"-your sister."

"She isn't-"

"-she is," Hermione interrupted, gaze narrowed, no longer willing to play these idle games of half-truths. She had a job to do, a… a family to make whole and a vassal to train. She'd already made peace with her duties and there was so much _work_ to be done.

She tried again, a different subject, "Your magic."

Andromeda grimaced, "Y-yes… what about it?"

"I can _feel_ it, you know. What have _you_ been up to, Ms. Tonks?"

Now she felt some semblance of control, of… of power. She felt it in the way Andromeda sat up straighter. She felt it in the way the magic in the space seemed to _tremble_ , as if her prisoner was trying to call it back. Contain it. Control it. But she was _sick_ in a way that she hadn't known, a way that Hermione was beginning to understand.

She's saturated, Narcissa had said.

She's saturated in something _wilde_.

"My life has been chaos ever since the war. An endless drone of _nothingness_ and discontent. Of strict obedience and unfulfillment. There was no magic, no sense of _living_ that made me feel the way I needed to feel. Not until I was brought here, against my will mind you, but I was still reminded that I was _something_ instead of nothing during that impromptu trick."

"And you believe them then, the people who thought you worthless, a Mudblood-"

"I do."

The answer is startling for her company. She can tell by the way Andromeda jerks, in the sharp flare of her nostrils and the odd flicker of anxiety that shifts across her features… before she schooled them, returning to tired apathy.

Hermione continued, "I believe in His absolute power. In His authority to _make_ _them_ believe, to make them see my value… and they have Andromeda, more than the Order ever did."

She clenched her jaw for a moment, tried to swallow the rage the magic in the space attempted to stir, because it was _hungry_ , latched onto Andromeda in such a way that seemed parasitic. They'd have to fix that, change that…

Or _control_ it.

"He is… different. Nothing like we'd been told. Nothing like we'd been prepared to fight. We were lambs set to march and be slaughtered by wolves-"

"-you can't possibly believe that-"

"I'll believe what I see," Hermione hissed, "Tell me, Andromeda. Tell me about that _house._ About the _filth_ they had you in. Who made the order to leave you and the child behind? Who made the order to let you wallow among that lunacy?"

Andromeda made an odd sound in the back of the her throat, a literal growl, as her magic flared, "Y-you couldn't possibly understand, Hermione. They told us… they told us you were dead. All of you. That those who hadn't fled at the end… that those they had captured were being slaughtered in the square."

And maybe a portion of that was true.

"And we were told that… that things were horrid. On fire. That the world needed us and that we needed-"

She choked up, her tongue thick, and she gagged. Hermione narrowed her gaze and Andromeda grew quiet, perhaps to circumvent the speech spell that prevented her from stating the truth.

"We had to stay hidden," She tested the phrase on her tongue, "We had to… the rituals… they were meant to make us stronger. They were meant to… bring…"

She paused again, snorted with slight frustration, "All they've done is made is so hard to…"

But she didn't finish her statement, this time of her own will. So, Hermione tried a different tactic.

"After the war I spent quite some time in, what I believe to be, Azkaban. My trial was held, I was released, and I was put back together. Barely." She closed her eyes and rolled her neck, calm, collected, lulled by the song of magic around her, by the response of her own as it lifted, just as _wicked_ and curious to toy with the force that had greeted her in the Tonks house.

Andromeda shuddered, pupils shrinking.

"I was assigned a job, a purpose. Saint Mungo's Potioneer. My life was peaceful. I was left alone… before the announcement."

"I saw the paper. Hermione, they-"

"I'm aware of it. The hypocrisy… but what if it's true? What if I'm some gift dropped off by Lady Magic, by wilde magic, to be coddled and brought to immense power? What if my existence produces stability? Absolute and unshakable? Because, Andromeda, that's what we currently experience."

"Stability?" She whispered.

"Absolute."

"T-the papers…"

Hermione went silent.

"The ones they've given me, they don't match what we were told by surveillance. Weasley-" Here she jolted, surprised perhaps that she was able to say his name, and instantly Hermione knew she was speaking about Bill, "W-weasley said he was tired, that we might have a chance to assist with absolute change if we returned to London proper and adhered to the regulations in place for the rest of the community. He was babbling on about rebirth to-"

Now she choked, snorted, shook her head, "Some of the Order, but they dismissed his speech for desperation."

"Magical Britain has become one of the most thriving magical communities in Europe," Hermione added, perhaps unhelpfully, "He is not burning wizards, witches, not even Muggle-borns, in the streets. Things are _different_ … but they are not awful."

She was content.

No.

She was _alive._

And that meant so much more.

"I am not hurt, and I am… in a unique position to… control." Here Hermione licked her lips, her gaze upon her covered arm, upon the pulsing scar there that tingled ever so _lovingly_ in phantom pain at the recognition, "And I intend to do that. I… want to do that."

Her heart skipped a beat at her own admission.

"I want to… control. I want to change things. I want to leave no magic undiscovered-"

"But all magic cannot be-"

"What is your alignment, Andromeda." Hermione interrupted, nose wrinkled, curious…

"My… I'm a Light witch, Hermione."

The magic around them trembled… _laughter_.

"I'm no longer a naive child, Andromeda. You are _not_ a light-based witch. Not anymore. Maybe, not ever."

She closed her eyes, one hand clutching the other, "If you must know I was what one would consider a gray witch."

A dangerous combination, to be fair. A witch who dabbled in all sorts of foolishly classified magics, the stubborn hypocrite. But even then, Hermione wasn't satisfied with such an answer.

She twisted a hand through the space before them, saw glimmering tendrils of darkness among the flickering candle, "Was?"

"Was," the older witch whispered, "My magic is… what they'd done to the house made it impossible to… refrain from…"

"Seeking greater and more potent magic. That's what happens, doesn't it? They classify it as _dark_ but I think it's more a manipulation of magics that can be beyond our control. It's power that can corrupt absolutely. It's addictive, inspiring, and _dangerous_ to use because of the impact and the hunger that comes with it. But it is…"

Here Hermione paused to glance around them once more, to the tendrils that still clung to Andromeda's body and the magic that writhed on the ceiling, brought along by her very presence to the manor.

"I know what it is," the older witch interrupted, "I've felt it every day, every hour, ever since they brought all that… magic into my home. Magic I warned them was to volatile. To _wilde_ to contain, to fickle to master."

And yet, Hermione felt as if… as if she had mastered it.

It was terrifying.

It was _exhilarating._

She brought her gaze back to her hunched over company, who rubbed her fingers idly along the holes and tears in her garment while scowling at the mess. A Narcissa-born expression, Hermione thought. Cute.

She shook her head a bit, "Luna once told me we were sacrificed for chances. For would-bes that couldn't be. Something like that."

Andromeda spared her a glance, solemn.

"I think you were sacrificed too. All of you. To the magic in that house. To the sickness that crawled under your skin."

"I told them," Andromeda whispered, tense, "I could see it stirring Nymphadora up. I told them-"

"Once you start using that sort of magic it _changes_ you. It digs under your flesh and makes your limbs move to its will. But there was something else already there, in Tonks and in yourself. Something that it woke up and you were too exhausted fighting that to fight _it_."

Andromeda jerked out of her chair so fast it was pushed against the stone floor. The loud screech of wood against cobble had Hermione up and on her feet at the same time, wand drawn as Andromeda approached the bars of her cell and clutched at the metal.

She looked… _untamed._

"They told you?" Her voice was fast, almost panicked, "They told you about the curse?"

"Narcissa did." Hermione lowered her wand, but kept it palmed, "But there's something more to it. Something that goes beyond keeping siblings from killing their brother-heirs."

Andromeda licked her dry lips and her gaze shifted toward the ceiling, distant, distracted, "I didn't think it would spread to her, I thought maybe-"

"Your family has practiced dark magic for centuries. The automatic disposition due to their tampering is your affinity for dark magic. You can't resist it any more than I can, now that I've tasted it."

Andromeda sneered, a Slytherin perfect expression.

"Neither can Tonks," Hermione said softly, trying to calm the wild snap of Andromeda's anxiety. "I think… I think whatever was done to that house changed her. Changed you."

Andromeda chuckled bitterly, a rolling cackle that was _far too familiar._ "Oh. It didn't _change_ me."

No, no Hermione supposed it wouldn't have changed her.

"It _woke_ me. I'd been dead, just as dead as you I suppose, since I married _Edward_. Purposely, mind you, as I had nowhere else to go. No one else to turn to. Dumbledore had offered safety and salvation from Father-as batty as the rest of them, that man-and I had to shed everything that I _was_."

She rocked back suddenly, away from the bars to pace toward the center of the cell and the beautiful carpet there. "And it became easier, easier to _hide_ , to wait. I thought… no, I had hoped that eventually…"

She snarled, "But then, Hermione, _they_ killed him! And he was _mine_. Mine to do with as I please. Mine to-"

She held her head, shoulders shaking, "T-this isn't me."

But Hermione _knew_ that it was. Knew that her rage, her possessiveness, was _some_ writhing locked away portion of herself. Her true self.

She struck, "Why did you… marry Ted Tonks?"

The laugh that echoed from the back of statue-still woman was _haunting_ , "Oh… I _loved_ him, don't you know?'

Hermione took a shuddering breath, felt the whispers of magic lick along her consciousness, "Don't lie to me. Don't you _dare_ lie to me."

"You think yourself so perceptive?" Andromeda hissed.

She only stared, intense and patient, waiting.

Andromeda swallowed, perhaps unnerved, and began, "I was too ambitious. I thought myself cunning. More so than Bella, who thought her court of followers so infallible. But I? I'd had dreams, aspirations of leadership, of dominance. I was… I _am_ a very smart woman, Hermione, but I have never been as astute as Narcissa and neither Bella nor I, have ever held any patience. I saw what Dumbledore… no, what the Gryffindors were doing, how they cultivated smart Muggle-borns-brilliant, Lily Potter was, just brilliant-and I wanted that. A different mixture of power."

She stepped up to the bars again, her expression focused, curious, and Hermione wondered what her own must have reflected. Eagerness, perhaps? Triumph at finally getting this apathetic woman to open up? To surrender?

"Hermione, dear," she practically _purred_ , with a rolling curl of power that had her nearly swaying, "did you know that when I was in Hogwarts we played a game?"

"A game?"

"Those who followed the Olde Ways would participate. Oh, it's nothing they would have played in your time. Too _wizard_ , too old fashioned, I once heard Dumbledore say… It was a game based on vassalage collection. On building a court. The Boy was never allowed to know of his holdings, did you know that? But maybe, if he had understood, you might have been his vassal, a part of the game. I think that, in some way, Mr. Ronald Weasley, knew what was happening and that he _was—_ a vassal, that is. But, he didn't tell you, did he?"

A lump of ice formed in her belly and spread to her limbs gnawing at her consciousness at such an admission. She swallowed a hiss.

Andromeda released an idle smile, something _almost_ unkind, reflected in the chilling shadows that swam in her gaze. "They called it, this game of ours, _Venatus_. Played traditionally before Yule hols or in the spring. It's to capture and to make subservient. A Hufflepuff is an… amazing witch or wizard, to be frank. They are loyal. Hard working. Dedicated, no matter the cause, and Edward was the most dedicated Hufflepuff I'd ever seen.

He was also the darkest, eager to learn and far too obedient for his own good. He was immensely interested in the Olde Ways and powerful to boot. It was rare to vassal a Muggle-born, but not unheard of. Dumbledore had just decommissioned the Wizarding Culture course but there were still viable methods to teach them and we were _right_ on the cusp of prejudice where a _Mudblood_ was good enough for service but not for anything else. And so… I hatched a plan."

Andromeda leaned against the bars, her forehead against the metal, eyes closed and lost in her history, "I wanted to cultivate and _create_ a new bloodline. I wanted Edward to be my vassal, never my husband, but I would have been able to keep them both. The House of Tonks and the House of Lestrange. You see, I was betrothed to Rabastan and while tolerable he was a bit dense at the time, not creative, and a little _too_ involved with the Dark Lord but I was hopeful that _Venatus_ would grant my boon and that Edward, upon completion of the season, would be powerful enough and _right thinking_ enough to be gifted to me. My efforts. My teachings… to pave the way again for Muggle-borns to gain their right to vassalage and the magic they kept being denied."

Hermione slowly approached and gently, she brought her hands to wrap around Andromeda's own as they clutched the bars. She shuddered, just slightly, as their magic _connected_ , but soon relaxed as Andromeda's voice grew softer.

"He'd had so many of them and no one could see. No one could see that we were _losing_ , that our culture was being absolved and claimed as barbaric because we were blind and devolving into _idiots._ A Muggle-born vassal would have paved the way for so much achievement… befriending one, teaching one… and they were so eager, some of them, to learn about the world they inherited, and nobody wanted to teach them _properly._ "

Hermione made a soft sound of confirmation, afraid she'd break the spell that held them.

"And they hated us, feared us, Hermione, those under the banner of Slytherin. The political _change_ this would have brought… the _doors_ this would have opened for us, for my house was…"

She swallowed harshly, caught on a phrase, but not because of a secrecy spell but because it was painful to recount.

"But he, Father, found out somehow and I wasn't yet ready to present. And I was so… foolish, rebellious and wayward and oh so _smart_ ," she snorted, "I thought I knew what was best. I thought I could continue, wait out his rage, but I couldn't. I graduated on the run. From my problems. From my sisters."

She slouched slightly, shook her head, "That hurt so badly. The separation, the… the pain. I was weak, vulnerable, confused from the abrupt cutoff. That's when… he found me. When Dumbledore proposed I marry Edward because… because he loved me."

She chuckled, something sad and _lonely_ , "but I am not sure if we ever loved one another. Not in the way that I… needed to be loved and he'd… changed. Dumbledore spoke so… ill of the magic, the _dark_ , which had been a part of my very core. So, I changed. For him. For them. I gave so much of myself, for the Order. For my Nymphadora, and for security… security that never came and ambitions that withered away under the lies that were told."

After that it was silent, just the sound of their breathing, as Andromeda stared at the floor, empty, and Hermione held onto her hand through the cell.

"So, what else is there to give?"

"Enough for you to be wanted."

Hermione jerked back and away from the cell at the same time Andromeda did, though the other witch was now pacing the cell like a wild animal, hands gripped to one another tightly, her eyes wide upon their newest arrival.

"N-narcissa?" Hermione whispered as the woman toward her with a smile and a quick kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you, Hermione, for keeping my dear Andy company."

Andromeda grumbled within the cell, nervous.

Hermione nodded slowly, gaze focused upon Narcissa's own, which twisted with the fervent storms of purpose, possession, and the desire to be whole.

"To know the true reason you ran, the irony is painful." Narcissa tsked.

"Oh, hush up, as if you would have done any better, the beautiful princess of Slytherin."

"I'll have you know that my _Venatus_ went incredibly well," Narcissa chirped as she gave a wave of her hand and the cell door slid open with barely a sound.

For a moment, Hermione was _certain_ Andromeda would run, but she only retreated further into the cell, her magic drawing in on itself, detaching from the _sickness_ that Hermione still spindled. Something was… off. Andromeda was… scared.

Hermione was incredibly intrigued.

"Your shields are down, Andy," Narcissa said softly, "are you going to behave now?"

The woman in question only pressed back against the wall and took a deep breath, face pinched in focus as she attempted to rebuild her mental walls. But Hermione knew it was a worthless gesture, there was too much of her _true_ self revealed.

She'd wasted enough time hiding, hadn't she?

"Hermione, Luna has a task for you from the Dark Lord. She and Nagini will meet with you upstairs. It's time you were rewarded for your… efforts."

Fear and excitement crawled up the length of her spine and she croaked out "But-"

"Go," Narcissa softly interrupted, just as she stepped over the threshold of the cage, "I'd like to bond with my sister for a bit."

Andromeda said something in a hiss in what sounded like Latin or was that French? To which Narcissa responded swiftly-

"Language, Andy! You know better than that."

As the cell door slid closed Narcissa gave a shooing motion with her hand and Hermione was no fool, to keep the Dark Lord waiting, to fail to complete His task, would have been a sentence to agonies she didn't want to imagine. So, she turned to leave, nervous and curious but hopeful…

Even as the sisters' soft voices faded behind her, Andromeda's somewhat dreamy, and Narcissa's triumphant.

The future would be filled with _freedom_ for all of them.

**Author's Note:**

> my very first harry potter fic.  
> let's go on a wild ride together.
> 
> [[AU - The Dark Lord is in control. Adult themes. Dark magic/aspects. Six years after the war. Quite possibly a bit of OOC.]]


End file.
